


Red Riding Hood

by Revenant



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alpha Derek, Alternate Universe, Angst, Bakery, Betrayal, Canon-Typical Violence, Deception, Druids, Family Drama, Hunter Stiles Stilinski, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt Stiles, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Kanima Jackson Whittemore, M/M, Magical Elements, Oblivious Stiles, Original Character(s), Protective Derek, Sexual Tension, Slow Build, Stiles gets a cat, Stiles is Derek's Anchor, Suspense, Trust, Violence, brief mention of past animal abuse, fairytale references
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-10
Updated: 2015-06-16
Packaged: 2018-02-04 01:50:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 38,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1762231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Revenant/pseuds/Revenant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beacon Hills is supposed to be peaceful, it's supposed to be a pleasant change of pace after New York. Ever since they moved, Stiles has been trying to make the best of it: working in his uncle's bakery, making friends, keeping his grades up, but somehow he keeps finding trouble. His parents think it's because he's looking for it but Stiles suspects there's something else at work. Lately it feels as if his whole family is in on a secret they haven't shared with him, and if there is one thing that Stiles is unable to resist it's a good mystery.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This story is the product of watching this [incredible video](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g7Q2U6Bfw-A) by **paquim** somewhat obsessively and being horribly, viciously inspired. Special thanks must be given to **paquim** for giving me permission to act on that inspiration, **[lastfaerytale](http://lastfaerytale.tumblr.com/)** for helping me get this thing going, and **[asylum94](http://asylum94.tumblr.com/)** for betaing! If anyone wants a more complete sense of what 'uncle' Reuben looks like, I've mentally cast [Robert Buckley](http://cdn04.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/buckley-bunny/robert-buckley-house-bunny-04.jpg%20) in the role.
> 
> Please leave feedback!  
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://dragons-are-a-girls-bestfriend.tumblr.com/).

There are a lot of reasons why Stiles hates his aunt but the latest in a long list of grievances has something to do with the fact that, "You gave me the wrong address _on purpose!_ "

"Did I?" she asks, all false-innocence, which she ruins a moment later with a sharp, low chuckle. Stiles pinches his nose and briefly considers hurling his cellphone into the woods. "Oops. My bad." 

"I've been driving around for a half hour with these freaking cupcakes and you know there's no air conditioning in the cab of this damned truck, Kate!"

"Your dad wouldn't want you using that kind of language, sweetie." Stiles rolls his eyes skyward and kicks at the leaves on the ground, trying to stifle the various curses and insults that are leaping to mind. "Let me pull up the order and see where you have to go."

" _Thank_ -you!" He rifles a frustrated hand through his hair, which is damp with sweat and probably sticking up every which way. A breeze blows through the trees and makes his skin prickle as his sweat suddenly cools. He takes in a lungful of air like it might be his last chance.

Over the phone he can hear Kate's fingers clatter noisily across the old keyboard and Stiles closes his eyes. Uncle Reuben still uses the ancient desktop from back when the shop belonged to Grandpa Gerard and his brother. The plastic has gone yellow with age and the keyboard it's connected to has keys that are about an inch thick and are infinitely satisfying to press. Reuben claims he's holding onto the thing because it's the only way he'd trust Stiles in the office; after all, the most mischief he can get up to is an exhilarating game of Ski Free because beyond that the machine is only capable of running the outdated version of Excel on which Reuben keeps the business numbers. 

"It's the Kerkelie order," Stiles tells Kate when her clacking continues for a suspiciously long time. "If that's even their real name. I can't believe you didn't write down which house you purposely messed up. They're probably never going to come back to the bakery again. That's on you, Kate. I hope you're proud of yourself."

"Relax. They'll come back. And of course 'Kerkelie' is their real name. Why would I make that up?" Stiles swears he can actually hear her eyes roll over the phone. "I don't understand why you don't trust me."

"I don't know either, but maybe if you'd stop with the stupid pranks all the time..." 

"I'm training you, kid. Teaching you to always be on your toes. These are important life skills that you'll thank me for later." 

When she manages to locate the right address Stiles recites it back to make certain he's heard it correctly. "Are you sure that this is the place?"

"Of course!" As if it's entirely preposterous that he should think she might deliberately give him the wrong one. Like that sort of a joke is so totally beneath her that he should feel ashamed for even thinking it. Like her capacity for recollection is less than shit. "I love you, little bro!" she sing-songs at him.

"I hate you, satanic auntie," he sing-songs right back, and then hangs up on her laughter. 

He'd pulled off the road the moment he realized that he was dangerously close to driving out of town. There's nothing but towering trees swishing in the wind and brown leaves crinkling under his canvas sneakers. The forest is heavy with the smell of earth and decay lingering thick and cloying in the heat. "I am _so_ lost," he mutters to himself, leaning against the side of the van and trying to call up directions on his phone. His fingers leave sweaty smudges on the screen. 

Behind him the van's engine ticks as it cools. He's trying hard not to feel irrationally jealous of it but his T-shirt is plastered to his chest and he is presently suffering from the intense urge to strip his shoes and socks off. His phone is displaying a happily spinning blue disc and not much else. "Dammit, what's taking so long?" 

Somewhere out there in the apparently vast 'small town' of Beacon Hills there is a hungry family by the name of Kerkelie who is impatiently awaiting the arrival of three-dozen assorted cupcakes including the most decadent red velvet cupcakes with cream cheese icing that Stiles has ever had the pleasure of taste-testing. The deadline on the order form says seven but he's already beginning to feel as if his luck has taken a turn for the worse, can't help the slightly cynical assumption that Kate 'accidentally on purpose' mixing up the addresses is just the first in a long line of difficulties waiting in his near future. It's only six thirty-five but with every passing second his general sense of hopefulness becomes that much harder to maintain. 

"What are you doing here?"

" _Holy shit!_ " Stiles jerks sharply, his body smacking into the side of the van as he startles. " _Dude_ , where did you even _come_ from?"

The dude in question narrows his intensely piercing eyes. "This is private property." He bites the words out slowly, enunciating each one as if he suspects Stiles might be slow or something.

Stiles is not slow, thank-you very much. He might be a little bit distracted what with the heat and being lost, and this guy coming out of nowhere with his broody face and leather jacket which, come on, how is he not melting? That's just so unfair. 

"You own the woods?" Stiles asks, pointedly looking around and yeah, he's only seeing trees in the immediate area. "I thought this was part of the Forest Preserve."

"No."

"Oh. Well, sorry dude. I didn't know." He clears his throat and then holds up his phone adding, "I'm totally lost. Somewhere in this town there are starving, sugar-deprived little kids waiting for cupcakes and my stupid aunt decided to play the lamest prank in the history of lame on me, and I'm beginning to suspect the street I'm looking for is actually so tiny that even Google Maps doesn't recognize its existence." 

The guy narrows his eyes suspiciously, like he thinks even though Stiles is driving a van plastered with the bakery's obnoxious badging this could all be some elaborate trap. "The Gingerbread House," the guy reads off the side of the van (it's written in bright salmon pink block letters that are impossible to miss). The way he says it sounds like a criticism.

Narrowing his eyes, Stiles huffs defensively. "I didn't name the place, I just work there. Obviously, if it were my shop I would have gone with something totally different."

The guy's eyes shift and wow, Stiles had thought they were brown but now the light is catching them and they look almost blue. One dark eyebrow arches upward echoing the lift at the corner of the guy's mouth. He jerks his chin at Stiles' T-shirt, "Yeah, clearly you're all class." 

It makes Stiles grin, pleased to find someone who shares a love of sarcasm even out here, in the back-end of the woods. "Hey now. Don't judge." His shirt is a perfectly tasteful blue and has a crisp and colorful little decal of a smiling cherry tart covered in sprinkles with candyfloss pink lettering beneath that reads 'Sprinkle Tart'. "Not all of us can rock the leather." 

The guy's dark eyebrows jerk upward and it looks like he's about to say something but then Stiles' phone pings triumphantly at him. He holds up his index finger, "Hold that thought." 

There's a little message box on the screen that informs him that there has clearly been some mistake on his part because Google knows everything but it can't find the street he's asking for. "Shit," he mutters, double-checking the corrected address and then what he entered into the phone. 

"That bakery is owned by the Argents, isn't it?" 

Stiles waves a hand, mostly distracted with the epic failure of Google Maps and with freaking out over this stupid delivery. "Yeah, my Uncle Reuben's place." He gives up, spends a moment wallowing in despair and then glances up at the stranger. The guy is glaring at Stiles' right wrist which, rude. Okay the tattoo is maybe a little weird, possibly also labels him as a hippie-freak and thus the total opposite of Mr. Leather Jacket, who's probably in some sort of biker-gang or whatever. But hey, manners are still manners. 

Awkwardly, Stiles rubs the back of his neck and then braces his arm against the side of the van where he can keep the inside of his wrist out of sight.

"You're from here, right?" Stiles asks, carefully assessing. "You know your way around?" It's clear from the twisted-up look on the guy's face that he doesn't want to answer, but Stiles doesn't have a lot of options so he blazes on, unfazed. "I will give you the world's most delicious cupcake in exchange for your help. Considering the quality of the cupcake in question this should really be a no-brainer. This is an _incredibly_ sweet deal." He pauses for a moment to laugh at his accidental pun, only slightly disappointed that the stranger doesn't seem at all impressed by it.

At least the guy isn't turning around and disappearing off to wherever he came from. Instead, he stands there looking awkward before the pinched line of his mouth relaxes, his posture becoming less rigid as one dark eyebrow arches. "Is this about the sugar-starved kids?"

"Yes, that's exactly what this is about. Please think about the poor, sugar-starved little miscreants who won't be able to properly torment their parents with these cupcakes, and tell me how the hell I'm supposed to get to Ridge Street."

"Ridge Street? That's all the way back in town. What are you doing out here?"

"I'm new, okay? Beacon Hills is a magical land of excitement and wonder, and like the idiot I am I trustingly believed my aunt when she supplied me with helpful directions to accompany the requisite addresses on the delivery sheet. She lulled me into a false sense of security with the first six deliveries and then I get to this last one and _bam!_ "

The guy gives Stiles directions and in exchange Stiles grabs the clear-plastic tray that is currently occupying the front passenger seat of his van, removing a mocha cupcake with espresso frosting that has somewhat wilted with the heat and also is a little bit crushed. "It might not look like much but trust me, it's orgasmic," Stiles assures the guy as he snaps the lid closed on the plastic tray and leans over to put it back on the seat. "My uncle lets me keep the ones that don't come out looking perfect. I did the icing myself." He thrusts the cupcake into the guy's hand and doesn't wait to see if he eats it because he's beyond late. "Thanks for your help!" he calls out the open window of the van as he pulls back onto the road.

He's halfway back to town when he realizes that they didn't exchange names and since the guy seemed pretty guarded he probably just threw the cupcake away rather than risk eating food given to him by a stranger. "Dammit," Stiles curses, slapping his palm against the steering wheel, mourning the loss of an absolutely beautiful (and delicious) mocha chocolate cupcake. He'd been saving that one for himself as an after-dinner treat. It was going to be the lone high point of an otherwise tragic loss of day. Sure, he's still got the pumpkin cupcake with cream cheese icing that he had accidentally on purpose poked his finger into while Reuben had been icing it, but Stiles sort of loves the mocha and espresso combination. He likes sneaking caffeine into things that he eats. Like coffee ice cream? Incredible. Whoever invented that was a genius.

By the time he gets home, delivery successfully completed (with ten minutes to spare, thank-you very much!) and horrible bakery van exchanged for his own beautiful Jeep, he's mostly forgotten about the cupcake. All he cares about is getting under a cold shower because he's sticky and disgusting. 

Of course the moment he walks through the door his mom announces that dinner is on the table so he detours into the kitchen and presents himself, arms out to the side to demonstrate the extent to which his clothes are clinging to him. He is, without a doubt, absolutely disgusting at the moment. "Are you going to allow me to sit at the table looking like this?"

His mom grimaces. "A _quick_ shower, please." Her steely blue eyes narrow at him and her voice chases him up the stairs, "I thought you were going to talk to your uncle about getting the air conditioning in that van fixed?"

"I tried, he refuses to listen to me. Make Dad do it!" 

He's stripping off his clothes before he even gets inside the bathroom, cranks the water on as cool as it will go and heaves a grateful sigh as it bites into his skin. It's fall and the last he checked that meant pleasantly mid-range temperatures. He wants so very badly to move back to New York where the climate had at least been reasonable.

With dinner on the table he can't bask in the shower as long as he'd like, still feels as if he's trying to get his body temperature to equalize as he reluctantly dries off, wrapping a towel around his waist and kicking his dirty clothes ahead of him as he makes his way to his bedroom. 

"Hey!" his dad calls up just as Stiles is fishing out a fresh shirt from a drawer. "Dinner's on the table. Get a move on!"

"Yeah, I'm coming!" Hopping in the direction of the door, Stiles drags on a pair of sweatpants and then takes the stairs two at a time, sliding around the corner into the kitchen, where he promptly trades his smile for a sour glare. "Who invited _you_?"

Kate flashes him a wide grin from her spot at the table. "Now that's not fair. I'm _family_."

"Stiles, please. You'll behave yourself when you're at the table," his mom chides. She holds out a platter of cooked chicken, the narrow red line of her eyebrows arching upward as she looks at him expectantly. 

He collapses onto his chair, accepting the offered platter but not without heaving a put-upon sigh and rolling his eyes. "Obviously she didn't tell you what she did to me today."

"Oh please. You're so sensitive," Kate accuses. She dishes out green beans onto her plate in a tidy heap. "One address that took you a little bit out of the way."

"Wha—" he sputters. "Try _across town_! I got lost in the woods!" 

At the head of the table his dad shares a long-suffering look with his mom. "Both of you cool it. No bickering at the table."

"Da-ad." Stiles draws the word out so it's dangerously close to becoming a whine. "If I hadn't ended up accidentally trespassing on some guy's front lawn then I wouldn't have ever found where the street I was looking for was because it's so tiny and out of the way _Google Maps_ doesn't acknowledge its existence! I would have failed to deliver a whole order and Reuben would have blamed _me_ even though it actually _wasn't_ my fault."

"You know how I feel about hyperbole," his mom says, her mouth thinning with disapproval. 

Stiles gapes for a second because, honestly this is so typical, of course he gets in trouble for his aunt's mess. "That wasn't hyperbole, Mom! That is _literally_ what happened to me today."

Kate rolls her eyes. "If you were lost in the woods, whose front lawn did you trespass on, genius? _Come on_."

"I don't know. We didn't exactly exchange information. I pulled off to the side of the road by the Preserve and this guy popped up right as I was realizing that there was no way I would make the delivery deadline and he said I was on his property and then he told me how to get back into town and make it over to Ridge Street. Also, Dad, I need you to speak to Uncle Reuben about getting the van fixed. I've tried my best; he just doesn't listen to me."

"How close to the Preserve were you?" his dad asks, all frowning features and intense glare; he's clearly missing the most important point, which is that someone seriously needs to explain to Uncle Reuben that it's not just tasty baked goods that require temperature controls when traveling.

"Uh…" Glancing around Stiles realizes that at some point he's garnered the undivided attention of his aunt and his mom as well as his dad, and everyone is staring at him like he just announced that he's in self-destructive emo-love with a vampire and is now pregnant with a sparkly undead baby. Kate's stopped eating, has put her fork down and is eyeballing him and this is just ridiculous because Stiles wasn't the one who did anything wrong. "I don't know," he shrugs. "I thought I was on the Preserve until this guy showed up."

"What did he look like?" Kate asks.

"Why does that matter?"

She narrows her eyes. "This is really important, kid."

If that wasn't enough, his dad snaps, "Answer the question, Stiles." 

Stiles lets his cutlery clatter onto his plate as he raises his hands up defensively, ignoring the way his mother cringes at the unnecessary sound. "Wow, hold up. How is this becoming yet another conversation about how I messed something up? _I'm_ not the one who switched the address. Also, I'm not the one who wanted to move to this town, so…"

His mom isn't really good with affable facial expressions. Stiles thinks this has something to do with the color of her eyes, which are a sort of steely, pale blue-green. She always uses a sweep of pitch-black eyeliner that make her eyes look even more severe, like she's annoyed all the time, even when she's offering him a smile like she is right now. The curl of her lips never quite manages to warm her eyes but her voice makes up for that as she says, "Of course you're right. It's a new town; we’re all just trying to get our bearings. I'm sure your father was only worried about you talking to a stranger out in the woods."

There's this whole conversation that his parents have across the table with just their eyes, and then his dad nods and the tension just eases right out of his posture, even though his mouth is still downturned. "I'm sorry for overreacting, it's just… there are dangerous things out in the woods."

This is a lecture that Stiles is very familiar with and has no desire to hear again, but his dad seems genuinely worried and Stiles just can't stay mad. He sighs. "I know. But I'm eighteen years old, Dad. I can take care of myself. Okay?"

"Aw," Kate croons. "Itty Bit is all grown up."

Stiles glares. "I told you _never_ to call me that again."

……………………………………………………

His favorite bedtime story when he is a child is the one about the little girl with the red cap who was gobbled up by a wolf and lived in the dark of his belly until a hunter came and cut her out. He asks to hear it so often that just about everyone in his family gets a turn at the familiar narration. They always read from the same battered book with the blue spine and the purple lettering but somehow the story changes depending on who does the telling.

"What story will it be tonight? Ah, of course, the one about the precocious child who doesn't know enough to be frightened," his grandpa says when Stiles hands over the book. "Hm. Does that sound familiar?"

"This is the story of little Red Cap, who didn't trust that her mother always knew what was best for her," his mom begins.

"And so, no matter where you are, no matter the trouble, I'll always find you," his dad finishes.

Stiles loves the story in every one of its versions even if none of them are quite right. To him it is a story about Red Cap and the wolf and that is something no one, not his parents or his grandpa or even his aunt Kate, seem to understand.

……………………………………………………

High schools look the same no matter what city they're in; the same speckled linoleum floor, the same lockers, the same neutral walls, even the same smell. In Stiles' experience the only thing that's ever different is the guidance counselor's office.

His favorite was the office at his school in Chicago. The counselor, Mr. Dobbs, had two large shelves devoted to mugs that grateful students had given him over the year. There was also a bulletin board papered-over with glossy pink wrapping paper and an eye-searing lime-green sparkly boarder held in place by brass thumbtacks. Big blue cut-out letters spelled out: "Are you feeling puzzled?" in the very center and Mr. Dobbs would post information about study sessions and the lectures he sometimes held written out on colored paper cut like puzzle pieces. 

"You look like you're somewhere else," Ms. Morrell says. Her voice is unobtrusive, measured and soft, but it still jerks Stiles back from his wandering thoughts. Her office is small, barely enough room for her desk and three chairs. The walls are a yellow-beige that matches her oak desk and bookshelves almost perfectly. She has no posters or pictures on the wall, just one framed photo on her desk obscured by containers for paperclips and elastic bands. There's a rack of generic pamphlets by the door: quitting smoking, safe sex, coping with bullying. 

Stiles rubs a hand over the back of his neck and tries to focus. "No. Sorry. I was just … Sorry. I'm paying attention."

Morrell's dark hair swoops over her shoulder as she dips her head, offers a cautious, twitching smile. "This isn't a punishment, Stiles."

"Right. Of course not." Interlacing his fingers, Stiles tries to sit still and look attentive. Ms. Morrell just keeps watching him, and maybe he's projecting but it seems like she's waiting for him to say something, volunteer some deep insight into himself. This is a tactic with which he's all too familiar. Counselors always want to get the new kid's measure. 

He waves his hand in a vague gesture that indicates the office, "Just taking it in, you know?"

Her smirk becomes a smile, almost looks warm and affectionate. "You're new to town, to this school. I wanted a chance to talk, to see how things are now that you've had time to settle in."

He shrugs. "No offense or anything, but high schools are pretty much the same everywhere. I'm sort of used to the drill."

"You've moved around a lot."

He laughs. "Oh yeah. Understatement."

"But something's different this year." 

Stiles is drawing a total blank on what that might be. Ms. Morrell shakes her head, expression caught somewhere between amused and surprised, as if she finds it strange that this hasn't occurred to him. "You're graduating in the spring, aren't you?"

A frisson of surprise runs through him at the reminder. The thought of glorious freedom makes him smile. For most kids graduation is the chance to get away, move someplace new and make a change; for Stiles though, it means the opportunity to pick a school and stay there as long as he wants, put down roots maybe. If and when he leaves it'll be up to him, his own choice.

Clearing his throat, Stiles reminds himself that he's got about eight months between now and then and he shouldn't get ahead of himself. "Yeah," he says, scratching at his cheek. "That's the plan, anyway."

Ms. Morrell observes him quietly for a moment. "Is there any reason to believe that you won't? Your grades are impeccable. It's true that some of your teachers have commented on your focus during class…"

"What can I say," he interjects with a mischievous smirk. "I have trouble sitting still."

"And yet you aren't involved in any of the extra-curricular activities that this school offers. No interest in sports? A lot of colleges like to see well-rounded students."

"I used to. Track and field mostly but, you know…" also science club, chess club, computer club. He'd had a growth spurt when he was fifteen, which meant he hadn't felt so out-of-place trying out for sports. His forte is running; he gets a lot of practice with that. 

Fingers tapping out a silent pattern on the armrests of his chair, Stiles rolls his shoulders in a shrug. "Back in New York I traded track for a part-time job after school, and found out I liked that better."

"More independence?" she hazards. He smiles. "Well, I'm sure so long as you keep your grades up your college applications will be compelling. If you have any questions, or need help filling them out, you’re welcome to make an appointment with me."

"Thanks."

The meeting lasts about half an hour total, and is fairly painless if also pointless. Plus, Stiles got to miss the last half of chemistry, which is a win. Stiles is not a fan of Mr. Harris. The feeling is apparently mutual.

When he rounds the corner to his locker, Stiles finds Danny waiting for him. "Hey, man. You lurking?"

Danny snorts. "Get over yourself, Argent." He shifts aside so Stiles can open his locker. "Hurry up, or we'll get stuck at the end of the lunch line."

"Yeah, yeah." He dials the combination for his lock and yanks the door open. It has a tendency to stick, probably because the bottom half of the door is concaved.

"Hey," Danny says. "What are your thoughts about Cherie?"

"Cherie?" Stiles asks as he starts swapping textbooks from his bag.

"Yeah. Really petite, bleach-blonde blue eyed, wears purple glasses and those hideous graphic T-shirts not unlike the one you have on now?"

Stiles's shirt of the day is a great white shark riding a tricycle and it is not hideous, it is hilarious. "Uh, she's fine I guess. Why?"

"Because she's checking you out?"

"What?" Stiles spins around so fast his feet almost slip out from under him. If not for Danny's steadying hand on his arm it's likely his ass would hit the ground. Sure enough when looks, there's a bleach-blonde girl with purple-framed glasses eyeing him up fairly pointedly. Stiles leans against his locker and offers her a suave little wave. She turns bright red and her mouth opens and closes a couple of times before she recovers herself enough to smile back.

"Oh my god," Danny groans. "It's like a female you."

"Uh, no," Stiles says, still keeping an eye on the girl – on Cherie – who is apparently coming over to him. "I would look horrible with bleached hair." 

"I don't understand how you can wear as many layers as you do, as much plaid as you do, and somehow get checked out more than me," Danny complains good-naturedly. Cherie's friends have linked arms with her, one on either side, and are dragging her away.

"Dammit. Foiled again," Stiles curses, watching a golden opportunity being (quite literally) pulled away from him. 

Danny snorts. "Seriously, though. I find this genuinely baffling."

"What are you talking about? I'm attractive!" Stiles slams his locker closed, hunching over awkwardly to zip his backpack closed. "Right? Danny, I'm attractive right?"

"We~ell…" 

"You suck, dude!"

Danny waves his hands at the red and blue plaid button-up covering Stiles' T-shirt. "The plaid, Stiles! I just … _the plaid!_ "

Rolling his eyes, Stiles pats his friend on the shoulder and explains, "I'm actually descended from Veelas, which means I can wear as much plaid as I want and still be beautiful."

"What the hell is a Veela?"

Stiles shoves Danny backwards until he's standing at arm's length, gaping at him. "Are you honestly telling me you haven't read _Harry Potter_? What is wrong with you? You're hurting me, Danny. Seriously. Right here!" he pats a fist against his heart to demonstrate the location of his distress and tries to look as if he is suffering intense pain.

"Stiles!" a sharp voice cuts in as Lydia Martin marches up to them. She spares a short greeting to Danny before fixing a glare on Stiles. "We need to set up time to finish our lab assignment."

"Uh, right. The assignment … for chemistry."

Her eyes roll to the ceiling and she huffs. " _Yes_ , Stiles, the lab assignment for chemistry. I'm busy tonight."

Stiles clears his throat, hoping to get rid of the choked sound in it. "Well, I've got work for the next few days, but I can do Friday?"

"Friday?" Lydia scoffs. "Who has Friday free?" Pointedly, she scans him, up and then down. She smiles. "Oh. Never mind." 

Danny is unsuccessfully attempting to stifle his laughter and Stiles doesn't know where to aim his indignant glare, settles for looking back and forth, halving his ire equally between the two of them. 

"Fine," Lydia says, flipping her hair over her shoulder. "Friday. But only because there's a game this Saturday and I refuse, _refuse_ to miss it."

"Okay. Bye, Lydia!" But she's already marched off, they didn't even arrange a time or a place to meet but Stiles assumes there's three more days they'll probably work that out. 

"Oh man." Danny, the bastard, is still laughing. "Well, there's at least one person who isn't swayed by your veela heritage."

"This sucks. If I'm still a virgin by the time the New Year rolls in will you have sex with me?"

Danny claps a hand on his shoulder the smile sliding off his face as he says, with a mocking sense of gravitas, "No."

"God!" Stiles groans, shoving his friend away playfully. "What are you even good for? Why are we friends at all?"

Scrunching his face up, Danny pretends to think. "Wasn't it because no one else would partner with you in history after you went on that monologue about male circumcision?"

……………………………………………………

The best feature of the Gingerbread House (outside of the delicacies with which the shop is brimming) is the metered street parking right out front. Specifically the fact that Stiles' awkward work hours, every day after school until store closing, means that he never has to pay because parking is free after four. He's laid claim to the spot directly in front of the shop so he can look out from behind the counter, passed the seating area and through the large windows and make certain nothing untoward is happening to his baby.

"As if anyone is going to steal that piece of junk," Kate snorts. "I can't believe Reuben lets you park that eyesore in front of the shop." She's leaning her hip against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. "It's bad for business."

Pivoting on his foot, Stiles squints out the windows. "The only thing I see out front is a ruggedly sexy all-terrain vehicle." He flashes her a cheeky grin, shoving her shoulder for good measure as he strides past, before snatching up his apron from its peg. 

The shop's colors are a balance of salmon pink and light blue, and since most of the shop is painted blue Stiles' apron is pink. Kate used to rib him about this until Danny pointed out that the orangey-pink actually worked surprisingly well with Stiles' complexion. Stiles had rewarded his friend's loyalty with an éclair and Kate had never mentioned it again. 

"Uncle Reuben, I'm here! Where do you want me?" Stiles calls as he finishes tying his apron off behind his back. 

The moment he crosses between the row of cooling racks Reuben starts shooing him back. "At the counter! You can't be trusted anywhere else."

"Sheesh," Stiles murmurs. "You swipe some icing one time."

"Right," Reuben drawls, grinning. "Keep talking, Stiles. I don't know who you think you're fooling."

Technically speaking, uncle Reuben isn't Stiles' uncle. Reuben's dad was grandpa Gerard's brother, so that makes Reuben Stiles' first cousin. Once removed or something like that. That's just semantics, and it's sort of muddy anyway because Reuben's dad died when he was a teenager and so for about five or six years he might as well have been Chris and Kate's kid brother. Plus, Stiles isn't technically related to any of the Argents anyways but they're the family that's raising him, the family's he's got and that's what matters.

"You taking over?" Kate asks when Stiles steps up to the counter. "I've got work to do in the office."

"Sure. Work. Hey, uncle Reuben!" Stiles calls. "I hope you know that you're paying Kate to make personal calls while I'm up here doing all the hard work."

Kate snorts. "Joke's on you. He's not paying me."

"Well, I've been reliably informed that all you do is sit in my office and make personal calls," Reuben says, moseying up to the front of the shop. He wipes his flour-dusted hands off on a towel and slings it over his shoulder. 

"Wait, seriously," Stiles cuts in. "You don't get _paid_? Why do you even bother coming in?"

Reuben snorts. "She checks in on the business every so often."

"Gotta report back to the old man," Kate confirms. "Your grandpa's got money invested in this place."

Nodding, uncle Reuben elaborates, "He helped me get the shop up and running."

"Grandpa does love his fancy desserts," Stiles says. "Hey, speaking of, are you still going to show me how to make that rhubarb thing?" 

"Sure," Reuben agrees, and then winces. "Oh shoot. Not tonight, though."

"Asshole! You promised!"

"I know. It was a last minute thing, and I can't cancel. Tomorrow, though. Definitely."

Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs. "Buy my forgiveness with baked goods."

"You're so easy," Kate murmurs.

"Of course," uncle Reuben says, shaking his head fondly.

Kate jabs an elbow into Stiles' side, jerking her chin toward the door. "Heads up, kiddo," she says, and then disappears to the back, uncle Reuben following in her wake as the bells above the shop door chime.

There isn't a single thing that Stiles doesn't like about working at the bakery. Well, he hates that the van has no air conditioning in the cabin, and that sometimes when Kate gets bored she comes up to the front to bother him. Besides that, it's easy work. The customers are pleasant and he likes that they usually stay by the counter and chat. Plus, if he gets someone rude, he's pretty sure his uncle Reuben wouldn't have a problem if he ran his mouth a little. The perks of nepotism.

In the evening, nearing closing time, things tend to slow down. Today isn't much different, and it's been almost an hour with no traffic when the bells chime again. "Hello, and welcome to the Gingerbread House!" Stiles greets. He's been occupying himself by fixing the tea displays and he's at that stage of re-organization that Reuben tends to call 'making a mess'. 

There's a shy looking blond guy wearing a deputy's uniform staring at the glass cases with Bambi-wide eyes like he is incapable of processing everything he's looking at. The expression makes Stiles grin and nod in sympathy. "Oh, dude. I've totally been there believe me. It can be overwhelming."

"Yeah," the deputy says as his gaze drifts from the cupcakes to the cookies, to the chocolate brownies, Éclairs and Nanaimo bars. The guy actually blushes when he catches Stiles watching him, shakes his head in obvious bewilderment. "I wanted to bring something in to the station, you know? I transferred here recently and I thought it would be nice but … I don't know what they would like."

"Hey, another newcomer! I just moved here, too! If you want my recommendation, you can't really go wrong with the pudding cookies. They're all moist deliciousness that will literally melt in your mouth. Plus, you can get an assortment."

"Yeah, okay." The deputy offers an adorably relieved smile. "That sounds good."

"I'm assuming the station is peanut free, yeah?" The guy nods and Stiles grabs a box, quickly unfolding it before heading over to the cookies. 

He's filled about half the box when the deputy gets a phone call and Stiles knows he shouldn't be listening but it's sort of hard not to. The shop isn't small but a lot of that space is taken up with tables and chairs, the deputy is standing near to the case that Stiles is fishing the cookies out of, and even if he's trying to be respectful there's no way that Stiles can ignore someone blurting out, "A _body!_ " into their cellphone. 

He perks up, can't help it really, and doesn't feel guilty because that statement is quickly followed by, "What do you mean _half_ a body?" and then, " _Where_ in the Preserve?"

Stiles feels his whole body go hot for a second, only for all the heat to drain out of him entirely. He fumbles the chocolate chip cookies he's putting into the box, feeling shivery and dazed. There's a steady buzzing in his ears that's still there a moment later when the deputy ends the call and looks up, sheepish. "Uh, sorry. Police business."

"Hey, don't worry about it." Stiles tries to smile as he sets the box onto the counter, hopes his hands aren't visibly shaking as he rings in the order. "Sounds like trouble."

"Yeah." The deputy pulls his wallet from his pocket. "It's going to be a long night."

"Good thing you've got provisions then." He hits a key on the old-fashioned register and slips the crinkled bills into place. "Good luck, Deputy."

"Parrish," the guy says, pausing by the door and offering another of those shy smiles. "It's Deputy Parrish."

"Right!" Stiles gives a little salute and a wave.

He has no recollection of getting in the Jeep let alone driving anywhere. It's disorienting as hell to suddenly find himself standing in his own front hall. "How was school today?" his dad asks.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and tells himself that he's overreacting. "It was fine."

"Good." His dad is blocking his way to the stairs so Stiles has no choice but to wait. "How about work?"

"Work was fine, Dad." He'd gotten off at nine, and then helped Reuben close-up the shop. There had been other customers and other conversations but none of those had involved dead bodies and potential murder so Stiles doesn't think it's crazy that Parrish sticks out in his mind, or more accurately, the body in the woods sticks in his mind, and the search party being amassed to locate the other half of it.

"Good." His dad nods. "How would you describe it if the word 'fine' wasn't in your vocabulary?"

Stiles smirks. "Today was satisfactory." 

It makes his dad bark out a laugh and that makes everything feel gloriously normal again, especially when it's followed up with his dad wrestling him into a playful headlock and mussing up his hair. "No! No! I surrender," Stiles cries, the weight from earlier sliding right off of him and disappearing. He feels like himself again, clear-headed and all.

"It's getting long," his dad points out when he releases his hold, tugging at a clump of Stiles' brown hair.

Stiles ruffles his fingers through it and shrugs. "I kinda like it. It's growing on me."

The eye roll and amused snort is totally another victory. He doesn't get a lot of these moments with his dad, which maybe makes them that much better. "Your mother's going to be home late, I thought we'd order in a pizza. Sound good?" 

"Sounds perfect. No olives!" 

"Olives on half," his dad compromises, and then hesitates. "On a scale of one to ten, how much do you hate Beacon Hills?"

Stiles cocks his head to the side, considering. "Honestly Dad, it's fine. It's a change of pace, which is taking some getting used to but it's sort of nice, too, to be close to uncle Reuben. You know?" He gets a nod in answer and Stiles starts up the stairs, intent on getting some homework done before dinner. 

He finds himself pausing midway up. "Hey, Dad? How long are we gonna be here?" He gets this sort of inscrutable, blank-faced expression, which Stiles is all too familiar with. He rephrases, "Long enough for me to graduate, at least?"

"That's the plan. Do you think you can stand being stuck in sleepy small-town California while you finish up high school?"

"Har har har." Stiles pairs his false laughter with an appropriately sardonic look. "You're freaking hilarious." He heads up the stairs to his room, his backpack slung over his shoulder.

……………………………………………………

This is how he finds out they're leaving New York: there is a realtor sitting with his parents at the kitchen table when Stiles gets home from work. 

"I'll just give you all a moment," the realtor says, her chair squawking as she pushes it back from the table. She angles her body so she can slip passed him out of the kitchen.

His mother rubs a finger over her left brow, sighing. "Stiles, honey, don't make this into an issue. This is not the first time we've moved."

"But Mom--" he trails off. There's a lump in his throat that he has to work to swallow passed, his mind his racing. "Is this about what happened over the long weekend? I'm _fine_. How many times do I have to say…"

"It's not up for debate," his mother says, holding up a hand. 

Clearing his throat, his dad motions for him to sit down, waits until Stiles collapses into the realtor's abandoned chair, his arms crossed over his chest. "This isn't how we planned to do this. We wanted to sit down and talk properly." Stiles can't do much of anything beyond glare. Every time they have moved his parents have always talked to him _before_ realtors got involved, and he's never left a school barely two weeks after having started. His dad continues, "Things have been hectic. I know you've noticed that your mom and I have been … busy, recently. More than usual."

It irritates him hearing his dad's reasons because Stiles recognizes the truth in them and he can't help agreeing. "You're almost never home anymore," he murmurs.

"I know." His dad rests a hand on his forearm. "That's why your mother and I think that this will be good for us. Your uncle Reuben's been living in Beacon Hills for almost a decade, he says it's a nice place. Beautiful weather, lots of sunshine. Quiet."

"Quiet?" Stiles snaps, defensive once again. "I don't get it. Is this punishment for…"

"Your mother and I will be around more…" his dad continues, ignoring the interruption.

"Oh gee, it gets better."

"Stiles!" his mother snaps, even as his dad holds up a hand, waves off her anger. "This is what's best for the family."

"The family. Right." Stiles nods, his fingers clenching at his side. He takes a slow breath, in and then out. "If I didn't come back early from work would I even be finding out about this now? Or were you going to wait until the house was already sold?" The look his parents share is all the answer he needs. "Right. Okay then."

"Where are you going?" his mother asks when he gets up from the table.

Stiles shrugs. "I forgot. I need to pick up a book from the library." 

"We should talk about this, don’t you think?" his dad asks, shifting forward in his seat as if he's prepared for a long and reasonable discussion.

"No, it's fine," Stiles says, shaking his head. "You're right, this is a _family_ decision."

"You _are_ family."

He can't look at his dad, can't look at anyone. He stares instead out the window at the cars passing on the street below. His fingers flex around the strap of his backpack as he takes a breath. "I've got homework."

……………………………………………………

The Beacon Hills Forest Preserve has a little rectangular sign strung up between two brown-painted posts that reads: "No Entry After Dark." Stiles pulls his Jeep right in front of it and kills the engine. 

"What are you doing, Stiles?" he asks himself as he peers out the windshield. Without his headlights he can barely even make out the trees right in front of him. "This is crazy."

That doesn't stop him from grabbing his flashlight from the front seat and climbing out of his truck. It's dark and it's quiet but somewhere out there in the woods there is a search going on for a missing half of a dead person. He has no idea what he's doing out here when it's past eleven on a school night, except that he'd been entirely honest when he'd told Ms. Morrell that he really isn't good at sitting still. 

Or staying away from trouble for that matter. 

He'd tried. Concentrated on finishing his economics paper and his algebra homework, talked to his dad over pizza and went back upstairs for more homework, this time chemistry. He kept thinking about the body, kept remembering how his dad had talked about Beacon Hills using words like "quiet" and "peaceful." 

Small towns were supposed to be safe. 

Small towns were not supposed to have severed corpses turning up in the woods. That's just not something that happens. That's like serial killer levels of psycho, which, actually he should be running away from the woods. That's what any sensible person would do.

The cool night air slips beneath the layer of his hoody, chills him as he walks until he's no longer certain whether the quickening thrum of his heart is because of the cold or the adrenaline. He can barely see anything outside the round glow of his flashlight that he keeps moving, left to right, highlighting the stumps and leaves on the ground and the skinny trunks of trees that have him surrounded. Crickets are chirruping, their steady cadence broken every now and again by the whooping call of an owl.

Behind him a twig cracks and Stiles whirls around, leaves shuffling loudly underfoot as he swoops his flashlight in an arch. There's nothing but trees and stumps and rocks he's already passed. "There's nothing there," he tells himself. "Stop being a big scaredy cat."

Stiles picks up his pace, not particularly concerned with keeping quiet until he hears dogs barking not all that far off in the distance. Apparently he's found the search party. He freezes in the middle of the forest like a deer sensing a predator, and he spends a moment quietly panicking before throwing himself behind a tree. 

What good this will do in keeping his scent away from the dogs he has no idea but at least he feels better. Flicking his flashlight off Stiles thumps his head back against the trunk, tries to keep still as he listens to the dogs barking and rushing through the leaves.

It's not the end of the world, he tells himself. If the police find him in the woods there's not much they can do to him. He clearly ignored the sign on the way in (couldn't be more clear that he blatantly ignored it since his Jeep is parked right by it), and they might bring him in and ask him some awkward questions but Stiles is the master of making stories up on the fly. Besides, it's not like they can tie him to the body because he hasn't even found it, which means there will be no forensic evidence, no reason to think they'd even try to link him to the murder because what would his motive be? 

"Deep breaths, Stiles," he reminds himself. "Stop freaking out." 

The barking and scuffling draws closer and then move on, leaving him hunkered in the darkness with nothing but the night birds and the crickets and that horrible adrenaline crash. He's shivering and jumpy and painfully aware that he's being an idiot. "What are you doing here, Stiles?" he asks again. "What the freaking hell?"

He could creep closer; follow behind the police to see what they turn up. If he keeps going maybe he can get some more information; at least he might hear what's being said. At this point though, he's mostly feeling like an idiot for even thinking sneaking out into the woods was a good idea. He thumps his head against the tree again and lets out a whooshing breath before dragging himself to his feet.

Flicking the flashlight on, Stiles does a cursory sweep of his surroundings and then officially gives up. He turns in roughly the direction he came from and gets about two steps before he hears a rumbling growl, throaty but soft like someone is out here snoring loudly. "Oh boy." He turns cautiously; scanning the shadows, highlighting what he can with the meager beam of his light and can't see anything that might be making that sound.

It's nothing. He's hearing things because his adrenaline is crashing and Stiles knows he always gets twitchy when that happens, even more than a normal person because he's been told that he's twitchy on his best days. There's nothing out there, just bugs and birds and the police and half a body, and maybe a crazy murderer…

He picks up his pace; scuffling through the leaves and making more noise than he probably should in his haste. This was a stupid idea. He's the actual king of stupid ideas but this is pretty freaking stupid, even for him. 

There's another growl, closer and louder and impossible to ignore. Stiles freezes in his tracks and spins around and he doesn't need his flashlight to notice the two points of red glowing like hot coals. They look like eyes. Probably because they _are_ eyes. Red glowing eyes. 

"Oh no," he breathes and the growling ratchets up. Stiles hauls ass.

It's a total mad dash through the trees. He narrowly avoids braining himself on a tree trunk, dodges it in an ungainly flail of limbs and a scatter of crumpled leaves and he keeps going. The faint glow of the full moon is casting indistinct shadows as he runs. Out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees a shape keeping pace with him, and Stiles keeps compulsively glancing over his shoulder even though he doesn't know what good that's doing. 

He might not be able to see well in the dark but he can hear just fine and he knows there's something stalking him. Hunting him.

The growling shifts from his right side to his left and Stiles half-turns to look and hooks his foot on a root for his effort. His arms windmill as his center of gravity shifts sending him pitching forward, stumbling to regain his balance. The flashlight arches out of his grasp as he falls and he hits the ground in a heavy thump that punches the breath out of his lungs, and even though Stiles doesn't remember any hills on his way in, he's definitely sliding down one right now. 

Twigs and stones are scraping along his right side and his back where his hoody and T-shirt have rucked up, chafing his skin raw as he continues sliding down. He's scrabbling for something to hold on to, the flat of his palms burning as he scrabbles at the ground, dirt and leaves in his mouth, panic leaving a bitter taste on his tongue. His heart is jack-rabbiting and he can't hear anything over the thumping sound of it, can't tell if he's still being followed. He's too disoriented and it's too dark to see anything but his own arms flailing and the ground slipping past him and then suddenly he's no longer sliding, his descent coming to a shocking and abrupt stop.

Stiles lies still, gasping for a moment, and then spits out the filth in his mouth, waggling his tongue in an effort to rid himself of the taste and then scrubbing the sleeve of hoody over it for good measure. His hoody tastes as much like dirt as his mouth does. There's a rushing, swishing sound, followed by another small avalanche of leaves, and then something lands with a heavy thud just inches from his head.

It's his flashlight. 

"Ha!" he says, and then claps a hand over his mouth, glancing guilty toward the top of the hill where he can still hear growling, only now there's also something else. He can hear two distinct tones of growl amidst the crackle-swish of leaves, which means there's two things up there instead of just the one and, judging by the grunts and whimpers, they're fighting. 

Stiles snatches up his flashlight intent on sneaking away while whatever is out there is distracted by whatever else is up there. He's just pulling himself to his feet when the struggle at the top of the hill abruptly cuts off. 

A second later something heavy thuds in the shadows. 

The flashlight is sturdy aluminum and has worked for him in the past as a handy weapon for self-defense. Stiles slips his left hand into his pocket, feels a flash of relief when his fingers curl around the familiar plastic bottle he keeps 'in case of emergencies', popping the lid deftly and letting some of the contents spill into his hand. He's not totally defenseless, at least. 

"Hello?" he croaks. There's an awkward stretch of silence, and he starts to think that maybe whatever was out there went on its way. Then something detaches from the shadows and steps forward. "Oh man," Stiles breathes out, pulling himself up from his defensive crunch. "You scared the crap out of me! Again!"

The dude is in the same dark clothes that he was wearing the other day when he gave Stiles directions and took (and probably wasted) a perfectly good cupcake in exchange. His eyes are doing that thing again, glowing pale and eerie as the moonlight catches them so it's impossible to tell whether they are hazel, or green, or what.

"Where are the others?" the guy demands.

"Uh, what others?" Stiles looks around, half-expecting a whole bunch of people to suddenly be milling around the woods. There's no one there. He looks back and shrugs, suddenly all too aware that whatever had been growling at him and chasing him is still out here somewhere. Along with half a body. "It's just me, man. In the woods." He swallows thickly. "Alone."

The guy narrows his eyes skeptically. "Hunters never travel alone."

"Do I look like a hunter to you?" Stiles gestures to his colorful layers (T-shirt, hoody, jacket) and his inappropriate footwear (his favorite pair of sneakers). "Is it even hunting season? I don't think it is."

"Shut up." The guy sounds more exasperated than irritated. His brows are pinched together though, like he's worried about something, or angry.

Stiles rubs the back of his neck. "Did you see what was out there? There was something chasing me."

That earns him an inscrutable stare, but then the guy glances away. "Whatever it was, it's gone now." 

"Whew!" He lets himself collapse a little against a tree, takes a steadying breath because he still feels shaky. "Hey, uh," Stiles licks his lips. "I just realized. I still don't know who you are."

The guy just keeps staring at him, intense and weird, with that half-shocked half-angry expression and then, almost grudging says, "It's Derek," so quietly that Stiles almost misses it. Would have missed it, if the guy hadn't added, "Derek Hale."

"Well, Derek. I'm Stiles. Argent, as you might have figured out from before. You know, with my uncle and the bakery and all." Derek's head dips, which might almost be a nod and is, at the very least, an acknowledgement that Stiles has been heard. "Did you eat that cupcake by the way? I hope you did because I can totally vouch for Uncle Reuben's chocolate mocha cupcakes. They're the absolute best."

Derek's jaw flexes and his eyes shift away. "It's a full moon," he says, apropos of nothing. Then he fixes Stiles with that look again, it feels like being caught up in a tractor beam. Stiles actually takes an involuntary step away from the tree he's leaning against, though that might be from the head-rush he's experiencing from sliding down that hill. His heart has yet to settle on a steady rhythm. "You shouldn't be out here."

"Yeah, I'm getting that." Stiles gestures with his flashlight towards where he estimates the road to be. "My Jeep's back that way."

They stand there, awkward and silent, and then Derek nods. "Come on."

There's no logical reason to trust Derek Hale except for the fact that when Stiles ran into the guy the other day he'd been alone in the woods and if Derek wanted to kill him he could have done it and disposed of Stiles' body before anyone even knew he was missing. 

They fall into step, walking back in the direction of the road.

"What were you doing out here?" Derek breaks the silence. Their shoulders brush as they walk, the leather of Derek's coat creaking softly as he moves.

"I don't know." Stiles shrugs, tries to look carefree and clueless and not at all like the sort of crazy person who gets hit with a sudden impulse to go haring off into the woods in the middle of the night because … because it had seemed like a reasonable thing to do at the time. 

Seriously, he doesn't want to seem crazy, and if that means he has to appear like an idiot he'll take it. "Out for a stroll. Under the light of the moon. It's romantic," he tacks on, bumps against Derek's side before he can think better of it. Derek's jaw flexes again. "I'm teasing," Stiles points out. "Dude, relax."

Derek grabs a hold of his upper arm, dragging him to a halt. "That was stupid. Coming out here by yourself after dark. There are dangerous things in the woods." 

Stiles meets the man's stare and snorts. "What, like that thing that chased me back there? Yeah, thanks, _I noticed_." He's used to being underestimated, it's usually one of his biggest advantages, but this time it rankles. "Hey, you know, this hoody is for warmth not symbolism, alright? I can take care of myself."

Stiles waits, watching as Derek's eyes drop down to where his fingers are clenched in the material of Stiles' zip-top. His red hooded zip-top. Huffing, Derek rolls his eyes, uncurling his fingers from around Stiles's arm. "Your truck's about a hundred paces that way," he says, gesturing with a jerk of his chin. "Try not to get killed between here and there." He disappears into the dark of the woods surprisingly swiftly.

"Killed by what, the big bad wolf?" Stiles shouts into the trees. "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf anyway? It sure as shit isn't me!" 

A clear, piercing howl echoes through the darkness and Stiles flinches, " _Oh_ my _god!_ " He pauses but there is no sound of movement in the woods, no other sounds at all except for the insects and the wind. He finishes the trek as quickly as he can. 

The metallic paint of the Jeep glitters in the moonlight and he heaves a sigh of relief. "Home free," he says to himself, smiling. "Baby you are a thing of beauty." Unlocking the door he hesitates, staring back into the dark of the woods but there's nothing, no shadows moving, no points of red light, nothing at all to explain why it feels as if he is being watched. He hesitates, and then Stiles unclenches his left hand, lets the mountain ash he's been clenching in his hand blow away on the wind.

……………………………………………………

The moment Stiles pulls into his driveway he knows he's in trouble. The outdoor lights are still on but both of his parent's cars are in the driveway, which means they know he's out. He cuts the engine, letting his head thump onto the steering wheel while he tries to prepare himself for whatever's waiting for him inside. 

Probably a lecture. Possibly a full-blown shit-storm.

"Well, I'm back," Stiles says, closing the front door. He immediately spots his dad where he's seated in the living room, illuminated by a single floor lamp. There's a book split open draped across his left thigh. "Is Mom asleep?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Okay." He hesitates in the hallway just in case his dad wants to start lecturing right away. When nothing is immediately forthcoming, Stiles heads for the stairs as quickly as he can without flat-out running. There's a chance, albeit a small one, that his dad won't want to scold him, and then they won't have to talk about any of this. 

"I thought we had a deal," his dad starts just as Stiles lands on the first step. "If you're going out you tell me or you tell your mother."

"Right." Gritting his teeth, Stiles shoves his keys into his pocket and switches directions, marching into the living room. "And I thought we moved to Beacon Hills to get away from this bullshit!"

"Watch your language!" His dad's brows pinch together. "What are you talking about?"

" _Werewolves_ , Dad! There are freaking _werewolves_ in Beacon Hills. I mean, why did we even bother? Why couldn't we have stayed out in New York? You told me this was over! You said…" he loses steam when he sees the frozen expression on his dad's face. "You didn't know?

"Reuben's been here for a long time. He said Beacon Hills was quiet." His dad rubs a hand over his face, then fixes Stiles with one of those narrow-eyed looks that Stiles can never tell are actually supposed to look terrifying or if that's just because his dad has really pale eyes. "What were you doing out in the woods to begin with?"

"Uh…" Stiles rubs the back of his neck awkwardly and tries to think fast. "Would you believe, jogging?" The expression he gets is pretty clear that no, his dad would _not_ believe he was jogging. 

"I _may_ have been looking for a dead body. Well, half a body. Is that better or worse than if I was looking for a whole body, do you think?"

His dad raises his eyebrows. "I think, either way, you're going to be grounded."

Stiles is still angry, enough so that instead of keeping a cool head he smacks his lips and rolls his eyes and snaps, "That's great, Dad, ground me. But if you think that's going to teach me some sort of lesson, like maybe next time I'll make better decisions or something, you're kidding yourself."

His dad points a blunt finger at him. "You're on dangerous ground here, kid."

Jerking his chin up, Stiles narrows his eyes. "You're absolutely right. I am on dangerous ground. That's the whole point. Beacon Hills is dangerous ground. You know what I learned tonight? That an alpha werewolf might have ripped some poor girl in half and left her out in the woods. We could have moved _any_ where, Dad. We could have picked any city in the entire country, so why did you pick _here?_ "

"Your mother and I…" his dad starts, rubs a hand through his hair and says, "Your mother …"

There doesn't seem to be more to it than that, not anything that his dad is able to articulate, anyway. Stiles is tired of being kept in the dark. He was happy in New York, and he had foolishly thought that he'd be living there until he graduated. That's what he'd been hoping for, because somehow all that bustling chaos made him feel so _focused_.

It's not like it was the end of the world. Stiles has moved before, lots of times. It's just disappointing as hell to be informed like an after-thought, 'by the way we're leaving town' and now here he is, finally settling into a groove, finally adjusting to this place and it turns out those reasons his parents gave him? Change of pace, more time together as a family, safer, less hunting? Yeah, not gonna happen, apparently. Now it will be just like before with his dad leaving right after dinner, his black duffel slung over his shoulder, making transparent claims about 'poker night'. 

Come on. Really? Everyone at the table knew that 'poker night' was code for hunting. Why bother saying anything but the truth? Stiles can only think of one reason and he doesn't like it. 

"Look, you can ground me, I get it. I know I should have said something before I went out. But Dad … I don't want it to be like before. I'm not an idiot, okay? I know all of your weird little codes for 'going out hunting now, see ya later'. They're not all that hard to figure out."

His dad grimaces and then meets his eyes, looking vaguely apologetic. "Your mother and I didn't want you to worry."

"Guess what? I worried. And if you think you grounding me is in some way going to force me to stay out of it well … well, you're just…." He tries to think of something to say but is drawing a blank, ends up with, "You're going to be disappointed," which at this point seems sort of like a given whenever Stiles is concerned. "I don't care if I've only lived here a few months, if I'm going to be living in a town that's being threatened by crazy supernatural murderers, then I'm going to be involved, at least some of the time, okay?" 

His dad has that face, like he's going to argue, so Stiles crosses his arms and raises his eyebrows, defiant. "You remember what happened the last time you tried to keep me out of it?"

His dad is clearly not happy about the reminder but he capitulates easily enough. "You keep your grades up, and you don't miss work at the shop for any reason. We clear?"

"Absolutely."

His dad nods, jerks his head toward the sofa and goes to pour himself a drink. Stiles drops happily enough onto the soft leather. "We know about the body," his dad says. "We're looking into it." He turns around, glass in hand and resettles onto his place directly beneath the warm orangey glow of lamplight. "How do you know it was a werewolf?"

"I don't know if it's what killed the girl, but there's definitely an alpha with at least semi-hostile intent out there." His dad keeps looking at him, waiting for more, and there's really no way around it so Stiles bites the bullet. "It chased me through the woods." 

He's totally prepared for the pinched-off angry look his dad gets. "Are you hurt? How did you get away?"

"I—" the image of Derek striding nonchalantly out of the darkness crosses his mind. Stiles licks his lips. "I have mountain ash with me. I used it and I ran."

"I want mountain ash in your pocket at all times, do you understand me? You keep the Jeep kitted out, and if you're not in the Jeep and you're not at school, you keep a knife on you at all times. Clear?"

"I do that anyway," Stiles says, rolling his eyes.

His dad raises his eyebrows. "Clear?"

Stiles huffs. "Yeah, _yes_ , we're clear."

"And your aunt is going to drive you to and from school."

Stiles gapes. "What? Dad, _no way!_ What's the point of my even having the Jeep if …"

His dad has a really evil smirk. Like so evil that even if he had never met either of them before, Stiles would totally know that Kate is his dad's sister because, holy crap that smirk is totally evil. "You can be grounded, or your aunt can drive you until we get this sorted."

"No fair!" Stiles whines. "What if there's like, a whole pack of crazy werewolves? Or what if you take this one down and then something else moves in! What if Beacon Hills turns out to be a massive Hellmouth? What then? I'm not committing to this arrangement long-term! I know my rights."

"You have the right to do what you're told or reap the consequences!"

Stiles offers up a mulish glare, crosses his arms over his chest and simmers like the mature individual he is. "I'm telling mom."

Chuckling, his dad finishes off his drink, sets it down on the bar and claps a hand on his shoulder. "Your mother will agree with me."

"This is cruel and unusual punishment."

His dad claps a hand on his shoulder, squeezes once, gently. "Don't break curfew again."

……………………………………………………

Uncle Reuben used to say that Stiles probably learned to run before he could walk. "You just can't get into mischief fast enough, kiddo." He likes to tell the story about the time Stiles dug a hole with his toy dump truck and rigged a trap with a carrot to catch his own rabbit. Apparently Stiles' dad had told him he couldn't have a pet. Stiles was five.

"It was living in your laundry basket," uncle Reuben says, snickering. "No one found out until your mom came in to do laundry and nearly had a heart attack."

When he's seven, Stiles is taken to the doctor's for tests. This is when he learns how to play string games. His mother gets called away for an emergency at work, and Stiles ends up sitting in the waiting room with the receptionist. He remembers the piece of blue string she'd tied together so she could teach him cat's cradle. This is also when he is diagnosed with ADHD. The Adderall means that he can sit for hours, twisting the string into complex patterns.

"Look at his beautiful fingers," his mother says. "I'm going to start him at the conservatory in the fall. Every child should play an instrument. With hands like that, piano will be perfect for him."

"With hands like that," Aunt Kate interrupts with a grin. "He'll be amazing with a knife."

Turns out he's plenty good with both.

……………………………………………………

Wednesday night Uncle Reuben finishes baking a round of cookies, wracks them to cool and then joins Stiles at the front of the shop. Stiles eyes his uncle suspiciously for a second. "Are you lost?"

Reuben sighs, raking a hand through his light brown hair. "I have to leave early today. Do you think you can manage closing up without burning the place down?"

"Hilarious," Stiles deadpans. "Yes. Obviously."

He's still basically grounded, which means not long after Reuben leaves Kate comes in, grinning sharp and delighted the way she always does whenever Stiles gets into trouble. Like she's half-proud and half-amused by him. "Hey, Itty Bit."

"And this day was going so well!" he grumbles, jamming a finger at the register. The till opens with a cheerful ring. "You know, that stopped being cute when I was five. The whole nickname thing?" She raises her eyebrows and Stiles huffs, indignant, "That's different! 'Stiles' isn’t a nickname, okay?"

She holds up her hands in mock-defense and then casually perches on the countertop, watching as he stacks the chairs onto the tables. "Why are you so grumpy today?"

"Besides your totally unwanted presence?" 

The silence stretches between them, expectant, and he does his best to concentrate on counting the money in the register. He makes it through the stack of twenties and halfway through the tens before his shoulders slump and he finds himself confessing, "I know Dad called Reuben out for a hunt. They're tracking the alpha. Dad purposely planned it so I'd be stuck here watching the damned bakery. The deal was supposed to be that he'd let me help."

"Your dad has his reasons."

"I'm aware of that, thank-you," he huffs. "It would just be nice if I knew what those reasons were." Scrubbing a hand through his hair he leans back against the counter, elbows supporting his weight. "He's purposely keeping me as far from the actual hunting as he can. Mom's even worse. But somehow, I still get yelled at for going around living my life as normally as I can and _accidentally_ stumbling on this stuff…"

Kate flashes a wry grin at him. "Accidentally? You sure you want to go with that, kiddo?" Stiles narrows his eyes at her and she bumps a knee against his shoulder. "This was bound to happen, hon. The hunting thing? It's who we are. Beacon Hills has a history of werewolves and..." she must hear the gurgling sound Stiles makes because she looks at him, and her expression seems genuinely surprised. "You didn't know?"

Stiles throws his hands in the air. "I told you! Nobody tells me these things!"

This makes Kate laugh. "Kid, when was the last time anyone needed to tell you anything? I'm surprised you haven't researched the hell out of this place already." 

It is possible that Stiles had taken the idea of a 'fresh start' a little too seriously. Also, that he was perhaps a little too blindly trusting when his parents said they were moving some place far away from supernatural crap. He doesn't want to admit any of this to Kate though, doesn't think he can tolerate her rolling her eyes or poking fun at him. 

Still, it's not as if his parents are going to start communicating anytime soon. He might as well make the best of what he's got. "Look can you just … Can you talk to me like a normal person? I used to be able to count on you for that."

"Stiles." She slides off the counter arms outstretched and pulls him into a hug. It's been a really long time since they've done this, and he'd sort of forgotten how awesome Kate's hugs are. 

When he was a kid they'd been closer than close, she'd been more like his sister than his aunt. She was the person he could rely on to talk to him honestly, to teach him tricks, who was always willing to get into trouble with him. She'd intervene sometimes even, arguing with his parents when he complained about not being able to go to parties, not having a car, not being allowed out on hunts. She was always in his corner and she always had his back. Then she'd started traveling more, hunting on her own, and she'd visited less and less, and then hardly at all.

His fingers flex in the cotton jacket she's wearing, his eyes scrunching closed as he leans his cheek on her shoulder. She smells of shampoo and that bitter-sweet perfume she wears when she's not hunting. He doesn't know what the fragrance is named, she always jokes that it's called 'down-time' and the name has stuck.

"Look at me," she says when she lets him go. She hooks a finger under his chin, forces him to meet her eyes. "You're like my little brother, you know that. Sure, we bicker and you drive me nuts sometimes kid, seriously, but I've got your back. Tell me, what's going on?"

"I just." Stiles tries to think of a less melodramatic way of saying this but can't. "I feel like I'm cursed." He waits but she doesn't laugh. "After that skinwalker in New York I just … I guess I actually thought that when we moved, things might be different? I got what, all of four weeks peace and quiet? Now there's half a body turning up, and werewolves in the woods."

"You're not cursed, kiddo." She drapes an arm over his shoulder and pulls him into her side, rubs a hand over his head. "You're just an Argent."

"Right. Can I take a holiday from that?" he asks hopefully.

Her head tips back when she laughs, and she presses a kiss against his temple. "Nope. You're stuck with us. Now finish counting out that till and I'll lock up. I'm sensing that what this night needs is some ice cream."

He'd argue that he's no longer a little kid that can be placated with sweets but that would be a lie. Stiles closes out the till and flicks off the lights, hanging his apron on the peg as Kate holds the door open for him. 

"Hey," she says as he locks up. "Anything I pick up about what's going on around here? I'll tell you, okay?"

Something catches in his throat, a tight knot of gratitude and relief and for a second his fingers just sort of uselessly fumble the lock. He clears his throat. "This thing sticks sometimes," he says, finally managing to secure the shop for the night. Her car is parked out front and he narrows his eyes at it. "We're taking my Jeep." 

Kate smirks at him but she slides into the passenger seat without comment. Stiles jams his key in the ignition, and then pauses. "Thanks." 

They swing by the bank so he can drop off the sale deposit and Kate gives him directions to what she promises is a spectacular late night ice cream place. They get about two blocks before the Jeep just dies. No fanfare, no hissing or clicking. It's as if someone had flipped a switch, or the damned truck just said, 'no'. 

"I told you this was a piece of crap." 

"Watch your mouth!" Stiles tries turning his car off and on again because it works with his computer and sometimes it works with his Jeep as well. This is not one of those times. He whispers a few sweet nothings at his Jeep but she still refuses to cooperate. "This is your fault," he tells his aunt. "She never gives me this much trouble."

Kate is unremorseful. "Boys and their cars." 

"Like you don't have the exact same relationship with your stupid truck," he glares at her. "You know what the first rule of driving is?" She shifts in her seat so the full force of her expectant hike of eyebrows hits him. He points a finger at her. "It's love. You take a car on the road that you don't love she'll shake you off just as sure as the turn of the world."

Kate's laugh is loud and startling, like popping balloons. "Get out and check your engine, you enormous geek."

"Don't tell me you don't love _Serenity_." Stiles grabs his flashlight from the glove compartment. "I'll have to disown you for real." He pretends he doesn't hear her sarcastic 'please do' because things feel better between them, finally. Maybe that's because he's starting to forgive her for all those years when she was essentially just gone, maybe it's more than that, but he hadn't realized how much he'd missed her until they achieved to this shaky equilibrium.

The street's deserted since they're in the commercial end of town. The shops are closed and people have gone home. It's a cool night but traces of the day's warmth linger in the air, everything feels fresh. "Call my mom, maybe she can pick us up on her way home." Stiles leaves the door open as he walks round to the front of the Jeep. "Chances are good that my Jeep's not gonna start because you insulted her." Kate, being the mature individual that she is, sticks her tongue out at him but she takes out her cellphone.

He honestly doesn't know what he expects to find when he pops the hood. He's been teaching himself stuff about cars but it's slow going because it's far more interesting to steal the family bestiary and research hinky punks and hobgoblins and shit like that. Stiles turns his flashlight on and takes a look just the same. He can identify the engine (yup, present and accounted for), but beyond that he knows how to check his oil and add windshield wiper fluid and that's about it. "Shit." The Jeep ticks at him irritably.

That's when the snarling starts. It's low and quiet but definitely there, just like in the forest. 

His first thought is 'not again', but after that he says, "Hey, Kate. Grab the tools from the back, okay? I think I might see the problem." He takes slow, deep breaths trying to keep his heart rate in check, and makes a show of fumbling around trying to look like he's problem solving and not wiggling random hoses and wires under the hood.

"Here," Kate thrusts his backpack at him, which is as good a thing as any considering he doesn't actually have a toolbox in his Jeep. When Stiles unzips the main compartment he sees she's shoved his hunting knife in there, along with the plastic bottle he keeps filled with mountain ash. He never goes anywhere without that, which means there's a handful of ash in his pocket as well. "Anything I can help with?" 

She wants to know what they're up against, but the simple truth is he has no idea. A werewolf by the sound of it but whether it's by itself or with its pack, Stiles has no clue. He shrugs. "Maybe stick around. I might need an extra pair of hands."

"Happy to help." Smirking, she leans against the hood and stares at him. 

He doesn't know where to go from here. Usually this is the point at which his dad or his aunt or someone more experienced takes charge. Kate just looks at him expectantly and waits. "Are you gonna do something?" 

Stiles frowns. "Like what?" 

Her eyebrows jerk upward. "I don't know, maybe _fix the problem?_ " 

He blinks at her, not really wanting to pull his knife from his backpack because whatever is out there lurking in the dark hasn't attacked yet, and he's sort of hoping it will just go away. "Did you call my mom?"

"I called your dad, kiddo. He's on his way, but I really don't think he'll be fast enough."

Turns out she's right because the werewolf chooses that moment to come darting out of the shadows, teeth massive and yellowed. It's snarling, eyes glowing bright and blue as it lunges right for Stiles. Stiles jerks his knife from his bag, managing a clean swipe across the werewolf's snout that sends it whimpering to the ground in an ungainly tumble.

Kate draws a gun from the back of her jeans but the werewolf is fast and it launches its next attack is at her, bowling her over. She loses her grip on the gun somewhere during the skirmish, but she manages to keep its mouth successfully at bay, so Stiles counts that a win. Being a hunter is all about priorities. 

With the wolf distracted, he manages to get close enough to sink his knife into its side. It might not be a killing blow but it's enough to get the beast off Kate, giving her plenty of time and space to regain her feet. 

"You can't shoot a gun in the middle of town," Stiles says when he realizes where his aunt is moving. 

His knife is specially made, a silver blade mixed with mountain ash, wolfsbane and mistletoe, which means every hit he scores with it takes a small eternity to heal. It's his weapon of choice, but Kate has always preferred firearms, and she's got wolfsbane bullets, but she'll make a hell of a racket if she starts firing. Every time he tries to convince his family to invest in silencers he's argued into the ground but really, it's moments like _this_ that he's thinking about. 

Smirking, Kate cocks the gun. "If it's a choice between shooting a round off in front a cop and dying, I'd _still_ fire this gun."

"You couldn't have grabbed the crossbow?" He has to dodge as the werewolf recovers itself and takes a swipe at him. Stiles retaliates with a slash across its belly, pivoting on his feet in order to keep the Jeep at his back. 

"There's no one here, no one's gonna get caught in the crossfire. Stop being such a baby." Kate steps between Stiles and the wolf, her gun at the ready. 

"Kate! Just –" but the werewolf isn't giving them a lot of free time to chat, its claws slash, shredding Kate's shirt a the shoulder and drawing blood. 

Even as Stiles jumps forward to fight the thing back he hears the gun go off, shatteringly loud. The werewolf groans and staggers, its whole body slumping and then it drops onto its side on the asphalt. "Excellent," Stiles snorts. "Now I'm completely deaf."

Glancing over her shoulder to him, Kate smirks. "What? I couldn't hear you."

The werewolf is badly injured, the wolfsbane in its system clearly taking a toll. That doesn't stop it from dragging its body haltingly towards where Stiles is standing. "What the hell?" Stiles wonders aloud, sidestepping quickly as the wolf inches closer. Kate raises her gun again and fires off two more shots and the wolf takes the hint, dragging itself up onto its feet and limping off as quickly as it can.

"You see?" Kate asks. There's a cut across the bridge of her nose and a bruise on her cheek, and that's not even taking into account the scratches that have sliced clean-through the left arm of her brown leather jacket, blood staining her shirt as she chuckles. "Tell me this gun didn't come in handy."

"That was weird, right? I mean, it kept coming…" Stiles stares into the alley where the werewolf has disappeared. There's no sign of it anywhere and he collapses back, letting the front-end of his Jeep take his weight. "Hey, you okay?"

"I'll live. How about you?"

"Sure." He's not a big fan of adrenaline crashes. There's a part of him that thinks curling up in his Jeep for a nice long nap is an excellent idea, but the majority of him seems determined to shake itself apart. "I suppose we should call the cops?"

Kate leans against the Jeep beside him, checking the tear in her shirt. "Gunshots that loud in a town like this? I'd be surprised if someone hasn't already, but sure. Go ahead."

The Sheriff pulls up in a cruiser eight minutes later, sirens blaring and lights flashing. By that time Stiles' dad has arrived, and as the Sheriff finishes taking Kate's statement the ambulance pulls up. "You should probably get checked out," the sheriff says to Kate. 

Stiles flashes her a devil's grin, "If you don't then I sure as hell won't. There's no way I look as bad as you do right now." He's got a cut on his forearm that's superficial, but she nods at him anyway. 

"Thanks a lot, kiddo," his aunt says wryly. "Such a confidence boost."

"I think the paramedic might be single," he calls after her. She flips him off. When he turns back around his dad is hovering right by his side and the sheriff is giving him an assessing, narrow-eyed look. "Do you need to take my statement too?" Stiles asks when the sheriff just stares at him.

"Uh, yeah. If you don't mind." Stiles recites everything he and Kate worked out while they were waiting, and even comes up with a half-assed description of the attacker. 

"You said he had a knife?" the sheriff asks.

"Yeah, he got me with it." Stiles holds out his arm where the werewolf scratched him. It's not deep enough to be a real concern. "He just came out of nowhere."

"Okay." The sheriff finishes jotting things down and then meets Stiles' eyes. "Thanks uh … I didn't get your name."

"It's Stiles," Stiles answers, right as his dad says, "Niall."

The sheriff glances between the two of them, and Stiles grits his teeth a little. "It's _Stiles_. Argent."

"O-kay." The sheriff jots it down, spares another flickering glance between Stiles and his dad, then he gives Stiles a sort of considering stare, his pen tapping against his notepad. For a second it looks like he's going to say something, but then his gaze shifts to where Stiles' dad is standing and he scratches at his eyebrow with his thumbnail instead. He clears his throat. "That should be all we need. Thank-you for your time, Mr. Argent, Stiles." He gives both of them a nod before stepping away.

Stiles holds his hand up, fingers spread wide as he waves awkwardly, and then he lets his dad spin him around and frog march him toward the pick-up truck. "You're sure you're okay?"

"It didn't bite me, and it didn't bite Kate. These are just scratches. I promise." Stiles cranes his head around as they pass his Jeep. "What about my car?"

"Your car?" His dad huffs. "I've already called someone to tow it. They've got my information; the Jeep should be the last thing on your mind right now."

Cocking his head, Stiles asks, "What else should I be thinking about? I'm fine, Kate's fine, so … next priority is my Jeep."

His dad rolls his eyes. "Just get in the truck." 

Stiles grabs the passenger side door handle and pauses, catches the sheriff flashing another sideways glance his way but he can't really decide if the man is looking at Stiles or Kate, who's just hopping down from the ambulance freshly bandaged. He decides it probably doesn't matter, either way.

"What happened to 'if you go, I'll go'?" Kate asks as she joins them, freshly bandaged.

"Check this thing out, it's barely anything." Stiles holds out his arm for inspection. "I'm slapping some antiseptic on it, giving it an aconite wash and a Band-Aid and I'll be good as new."

She snorts and then chivvies and shoves until he climbs into the backseat so she can take shotgun. "You owe me an ice-cream," Stiles reminds her.

Kate cranes her head around to grin at him. "After this whole fiasco? Hell, your dad can buy us both an ice cream. How about that, Chris? Come on bro. I defended your baby boy tonight."

Stiles gapes at her brazen lie. "She didn't defend me, Dad! I was looking after myself just fine! If anything, I had _her_ back."

His dad just shakes his head. "I can't believe that I organize a search of the woods with a bunch of armed hunters, and you two run into a werewolf in the middle of downtown."

"Come on, don't be glum," Stiles cajoles. "Kate shot the thing. Wolfsbane bullets. That should make it easier to track, right? Maybe we can figure out why it's attacking."

"Was it an omega?" 

"It looked pretty rough," Kate confirms.

"Yup," Stiles pipes up. "Blue eyes, manic expression. Totally bloodthirsty. It went straight for Kate's jugular. Do you think it's the thing that killed the girl?"

"No I don't," his dad says grimly as he starts the engine of the pick-up. "That 'girl' was an alpha werewolf. I don't think she would have been taken down by an omega."

……………………………………………………

Stiles arrives at the Beacon County Sheriff's station with a big smile and a box of cannoli. He's hoping Deputy Parrish gets the reference and they can have a 'You like the _Godfather_? I like the _Godfather_ too!' moment and then segue from slightly flirtatious banter into something productive, like the young deputy maybe telling Stiles more about the murdered girl they recovered from the woods, and possibly any other suspicious activity he's noticed lately. Specifically within the past three or four weeks, ever since Stiles and his family moved to this supposedly quiet town.

Dropping the bakery box on the front desk Stiles looks around. He'd purposely waited until late because he'd had to close-up the bakery, and because he knows the station will be less crowded. Hopefully Parrish will have more time for small talk.

"Hello?" he calls when no one immediately comes out to greet him. He's pretty sure it's standard policy to have someone manning the station's front desk at all times. It seems like a huge oversight that it's vacant at the moment. What if Stiles had an actual emergency and not just a box filled with baked goods?

"Can I help you?" a deputy asks stepping around the corner just when Stiles is about to give-up on the front desk and sneak back into the station proper.

The man is dressed in the standard beige uniform of the sheriff's department with a dark khaki jacket. He's tall and lean as a greyhound, hair smoothed back like he runs his fingers through it out of habit. When he looks at Stiles it's with sharp, unblinking grey-blue eyes. 

Something is off about this guy. Stiles' teeth are set on edge, the hairs prickling on the back of his neck. If there's one thing he's learned after years of training it's to trust his instincts, and every one of Stiles' instincts is currently screaming at him to run and hide, to get lost in a crowd somewhere, to just get out.

The deputy is regarding him from behind the front desk. The lean of his stance and cocked head are undoubtedly meant to look pleasant and casual, but Stiles reads a tight readiness in the lines of the man's body, like he's prepared to spring over the desk. There's an amused smirk curling the edges of his mouth, it's a little too sharp to be friendly. He looks hungry. 

Stiles doesn't think it's the sort of hunger that would be satisfied by cannoli.

"Hey, hi!" Stiles greets as he slips his hand into his pocket, pressing his thumb against the cap on his emergency bottle of mountain ash. "I'm here for Deputy Parrish? Is he … uh, around?" 

The deputy's eyebrows are grey spiked-through with black, and they arch smoothly upward. "Deputy Parrish?"

This guy must be incredible in the interrogation room because when his eyes narrow Stiles finds himself licking his lips and babbling, "Yeah, you know. Blue eyes, blond hair, about so high," he holds a hand up in a rough approximation of Parrish' height. "Totally rocking the choir-boy aesthetic, by the way. Young … not that you're old! No offense just … oh god. I'm gonna stop. I'm stopping. Okay." 

He purses his lips together firmly, staunching the word vomit. When he's certain he can open his mouth again without rambling, Stiles asks, "So, is he uh, here?"

The deputy stares at him for a moment, smirking. "I'm afraid he's out on call."

"Oh, geez." Stiles grabs at the bakery box, back-stepping quickly but casually. "Well, that's really too bad. I guess I'll come back later."

"Maybe I can help you?" the man offers, stepping out from behind the desk.

"Oh, no. Really. It's totally fine. I'm – I'm good." 

"I insist."

"No means no, buddy!" Stiles tries to make himself sound forceful and determined, but it comes out entreating. To make up for it he purposely raises his voice, hoping to attract attention. "I want your badge number, man! You can't intimidate me just because I want to bring a deputy some cannoli!"

"Go ahead," the greyheaded dude purrs, tapping his badge. "Number's right here."

The badge is perfectly visible on his jacket and Stiles' eyes shift to it, which is when he realizes that the guy's clothes don't fit: his jacket is too small, the shirt and pants too loose. He's in a pair of brown leather biker boots with buckles and Stiles is pretty sure those aren't part of the uniform. "Oh god. This is not good."

Greyhead grins, the sort of wide toothy smile that Stiles has only seen on animated sharks. So very not good, Stiles thinks. He lets the box of cannoli drop out of his left hand and swings his right up and out, splashing the uncapped bottle of mountain ash into the man's face. There's no way to be certain that the man is a werewolf, or that the ash will even work on him, but Stiles doesn't stand around to find out. A face-full of ash can be pretty blinding whether it's poisonous or not, and he just needs time to escape to his Jeep.

Honestly, he's standing in the middle of the freaking sheriff's department. How is it possible that he's being attacked and no one is noticing this?

Stiles is pivoting on his feet, palm up and slamming flat against the glass door, only peripherally aware of Greyhead effortlessly avoiding the spray of ash. Stiles gets the door open, manages to suck in a lungful of crisp night air and feel a flicker of hope that he might make it out before an arm snakes across his chest and yanks so hard that he makes an involuntarily hiccupping yelp. 

He's hauled back inside, his legs and arms kicking as he squirms but Greyhead's grip is solid and unyielding. Stiles switches tactics, shimmying and wriggling until he's shifted low enough in the man's grasp that he can sink his teeth meanly into the guy's arm. Ideally, the sharp pain will startle the man into firm strong. He doesn't even flinch. 

Everything useful is out in his Jeep: the gun, the crossbow, the rest of the mountain ash, everything. Stiles thinks about it with a desperate sort of longing as Greyhead hoists him off the ground with an arm around his midsection and tosses Stiles over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. 

"Help!" Stiles shouts. "A little help would be nice! Where the hell is everyone?"

Apparently the only people who work in Beacon Hills sheriff's station after nightfall are psychotic imposters because no one comes out. Stiles doesn't know where he's being taken but it seems to involve moving further inside. He has no desire to stick around and find out where all this is going. There's a limit to his curiosity and they crossed it a while ago. 

He keeps struggling for all the good it's doing him. Maybe he'll make such a nuisance of himself that the guy will give up. Or maybe he'll piss the guy off and end-up getting murdered in the middle of the hallway in the sheriff's department. 

Gulping, Stiles increases his efforts, manages to kick his knee hard enough into the dude's sternum that he almost winds the guy. It makes him gasp at the very least. "Hey! Back here!" Stiles keep shouting, hoping that someone somewhere will notice that he is being abducted for some nefarious purpose.

"No one's coming, little one," Greyhead growls, and Stiles spares a brief moment to feel thoroughly indignant at being called 'little' because he is actually the average height for his age, thank-you. He flails around a little more, manages to swing his feet up and clip the side of the guy's head, which feels like an accomplishment.

"Stop struggling. You're only making this harder for yourself." The guy shifts his grip and then hauls Stiles off his shoulder.

There's a dizzying moment where the world tilts and blurs, and Stiles feels a swoop in his stomach somewhere between nausea and butterflies. When the movement stops he's staring straight into Greyhead's face, the guy's hands bruising Stiles' upper arms. There's solid ground under his feet but Stiles is too dizzy to take advantage of it yet, settles for spitting right in the dude's face, which is pretty satisfying right up until those giant hands shift from his arms, spinning Stiles around in another blur of movement. One hand grips him tight, arm pinning Stiles back against the man's chest while the other hand clamps down over Stiles' mouth, high enough that it blocks his nose as well. Breathing becomes exceptionally difficult. 

They're moving again, Stiles being dragged backwards, desperate for breath and to escape. Thinking is getting progressively harder. He lets his upper body go lax, hoping to throw the other man off-balance, keeps his feet kicking along the linoleum floor. 

Thirty seconds, Stiles keeps thinking, the thought all-consuming and tinged with panic. He has thirty seconds to do something, anything that gets him an unimpeded breath of air before he loses control of his own limbs and becomes incapable of clear, strategic thought. He's tugging at the hand clamped over his mouth, dragging down on it with his ever-decreasing strength. 

Just a few inches, that's all he needs. Just enough space that he can draw in a breath through his nose and buy himself another thirty seconds. His left hand is flailing out, searching for anything useful, fingernails scratching along the smooth wall.

It's downright embarrassing, is what it is. Stiles has been trained for this shit but he can't catch his breath and he can't _think_. The panic in his chest at his lack of air, the apparent lack of hope, starts bubbling up. Everything is coming to him in disorienting fragments: the curiously fresh scent of the soapy hand smothering him, the pressure and heat building up behind his own eyes, the faint squeaks as his sneakers catch and kick along the floor, a flash of red at the corner of his vision.

Red. Red on a wall in a public building. 

Frantically Stiles pitches himself left with all his might, gets just the tip of his fingers hooked onto the fire alarm and can't help a shuddering wave of relief when the harsh piercing shriek of the alarm sounds out.

The noise makes his assailant flinch and Stiles gets one gasping lungful of air before the big hand is back in place over his mouth. It's enough. It's enough that his thoughts clear and he can think again. He jabs his elbow back even if he already knows it doesn't do much good. Whatever Greyhead is, he's strong. Too strong to be affected by Stiles' jabs and kicks. He's coming up with a plan though; it's half-baked, last-ditch and entirely harebrained but he'll take it. 

Something slams into him. Hard. 

Or rather, it slams into Greyhead, who literally goes flying through an open door and, since his arm is still locked around Stiles, he gets dragged right along for the ride. They crash sideways onto the floor and Stiles thinks that if there were air in his lungs he'd probably be winded. As it is, his chest aches and it takes a moment before he realizes that there's no longer a hand blocking his mouth. Greyback has released his hold in favor of scrambling to his feet, his fingernails elongating and sharpening into claws. 

A freaking werewolf. Of course.

Stiles skitters out of the way, his sneakers squealing against the linoleum. He doesn't stop moving until he's got a solid wall against his back, and then he gropes for the hunting knife that's strapped in a sheath against his right calf. 

When he looks up it's to see Derek throwing Greyhead against the wall like he weighs next to nothing. The violent red color of Derek's eyes is the only explanation Stiles needs for how that feat is possible. Werewolf versus werewolf. 

Greyhead's eyes shine a luminescent red, teeth pointed and menacing, and Stiles realizes it's alpha versus alpha as well. 

Greyhead moves with fluid grace and terrifying speed but Derek's an immovable object, reaching out and slamming the other werewolf back when he makes a lurching strike for Stiles.

Then Derek roars. There's no other word for it. 

It's so loud the whole room reverberates with the sound and Stiles feels his bones rattle and thinks his heart's about to leap right up out of his chest via his mouth. Greyhead cringes back as if the sound were a physical blow, cowering and whimpering and he curls in on himself, cringing back and then he just – he just runs. Right out of the room. Stiles is pretty sure if the guy had a tail it would totally be between his legs.

It's awesome, is what it is.

"You okay?" Derek asks, turning around with his face looking normal, his eyes back to that impossible hazel shade and his teeth no longer threatening points in his mouth. 

"Yeah," Stiles says, then again, stronger, "Yeah, I'm okay." He stows his knife quickly and then holds up his right arm, flapping it impatiently when the alpha doesn't move. "Help me up."

Derek's hand is rough but warm. He's just thrown a dude twice Stiles' size and probably about three times his weight around like nothing but when he pulls it's with just enough force. Stiles isn't even off-balance when he gets his feet back under him. He tugs his plaid shirt back into place while the alpha scans him, head-to-toe, checking for injury. 

When the scan is finished Stiles catches his eyes, pointedly shifting his gaze down to where Derek's hand is still grasping Stiles' forearm. Derek's eyes go wide and Stiles struggles not to smirk. He could swear the tips of the man's ears turn pink. 

"You're taking this well," the alpha comments, clearing his throat as he lets Stiles go.

"Being attacked?" Stiles asks. "Or the whole werewolf thing?" The arch of Derek's brows eloquently conveys, 'pick one'. Stiles shrugs. "I've known werewolves were real since I was a kid." He pats his pockets, making sure the keys to his Jeep haven't slipped out during his struggles. They haven't. "Hey, thanks for the save, by the way. I mean not that I couldn't have handled this but –"

Derek snorts. "You were half-asphyxiated. He had you pinned." 

The alpha stares at him and Stiles stares right back. After a beat, Derek raises his eyebrows. "He was an alpha werewolf. If I hadn't been here…"

Stiles rolls his shoulder. "I would have figured something out. I always do."

"I think you have a death wish."

Shaking his head adamantly, Stiles corrects, "No, that's not it at all. More like I've got a life wish." He smirks. "And a plan B. That's something you should know about me. I mean, if we're going to keep running into each other like this."

Derek snorts. "And by 'like this' you mean, me saving your life?"

"Wha-at?" Stiles draws the word out. "What are talking about? When did you save my life? Ever?"

"Just now?" Derek insists. "And in the woods?"

"The woods, please," Stiles scoffs. "That was like, an invigorating night jog."

Derek rolls his eyes, his whole head following the motion of it. "An invigorating night jog is how you describe running for your life as you're chased by an alpha werewolf?"

"An alpha? Really?" He'd been pretty certain that it had been, but not one hundred percent. 

Derek nods. "The same alpha, in fact."

"Huh." Stiles doesn't know if that means anything or not. On the one hand it's sort of comforting to know that there's apparently only one psychotic bloodthirsty alpha werewolf in Beacon Hills. On the other hand, there's still a psychotic bloodthirsty alpha werewolf in Beacon Hills so …

He decides not to think about that and changes the subject. "So when you 'saved' me," he makes certain to quirk his index fingers around the word 'saved' because he's not admitting to anything. "What was that exactly? Why would an alpha werewolf save a hunter?"

There's a challenge in Derek's eyes that sends a shiver down Stiles' spine. "I thought you said you weren't a hunter?"

"I'm an Argent. We're all hunters."

"Maybe." The alpha moves and suddenly Derek is right in Stiles' personal space. He can feel the heat from Derek's body, can smell the scent of him: sweat and soap and something sharp and fresh. Derek takes a deliberate breath, his nose so close it brushes the hair behind Stiles' left ear. When he speaks again, his breath is a whisper across Stiles' skin. "Maybe not."

"Right." Stiles swallows and takes a careful step back. "Well, this has been enlightening and, you know, _horrifying_. I kind of don't even want to know where all the police have gone but I'm pretty sure the firemen are gonna arrive any minute and that's a conversation I don't especially feel like having tonight."

Derek is staring at him, his gaze intense. "I'll walk you out."

"Okay no, seriously." Stiles presses his hand against Derek's chest when he moves to follow. "What is this? Right here? What were you even doing here tonight?"

"What were _you_ doing here?"

Stiles leans back, surprised by the question. "I came to seduce information out of a deputy with my incredible baking, rakish charm and rapier wit. Your turn." 

Derek starts growling on the word 'seduce', shifting further into Stiles' personal space like he has any right to be there. Stiles would comment but the guy looks about as surprised as Stiles feels. They end up both staring at each other, uncomfortably close and entirely shocked for a couple of seconds. Then Derek clears his throat and steps away. "I should go."

"Yeah, okay," Stiles nods. He licks his lips. "I'll go too. But this way. I'll go this way … to my Jeep," he gestures to the front of the station, the opposite direction from where Derek is moving. "Right, I'm going." 

He turns and rushes off down the hallway, hoping he can get out before anyone pulls into the station and starts asking uncomfortable questions. He stops on his way to wipe off the fire alarm with the sleeve of his shirt, pauses again at the front of the station to smudge the palm print he left on the glass of the door.

The security camera in the hall is broken, hanging by a few wires, and the one behind the front desk isn't much better. Stiles feels immediately foolish for not having noticed this the moment he came in. That's just sloppy. 

He scoops up the box of cannoli, tragically squashed, the only other piece of evidence that could give away his presence at the Sheriff's department tonight, then he heads out to his Jeep. He has every intention of ignoring this night's events. If he's lucky maybe it will all just go away.


	2. Chapter 2

The gruesome massacre of six deputies working the evening shift at the Sheriff's department is all anyone can talk about for the rest of October. By the time the pumpkin and skeleton decorations in the shop windows are replaced with colorful leaves and turkeys wearing pilgrim hats the buzz has mostly died down. "The case is ongoing" is what the Sheriff answers whenever a reporter remembers to ask, and the comment inevitably winds up in a short paragraph tucked halfway through the weekend paper: 'Sheriff's department still looking into the brutal murders of six of their own.' The families of the victims are entirely supportive of the Sheriff, almost naively confident that everyone is doing their best even as the days roll on. Stiles wonders if this is because the town has led a relatively sheltered existence until now or if everyone really does trust their Sheriff that much.

On a Saturday morning in mid-November Stiles rounds the corner into the kitchen, sliding on socked feet, and is confronted by photographs of the bloody sheriff's station and the dead deputies scattered across his kitchen table. His throat constricts and he has to swallow twice before he can ask, "We hunting something?" It takes effort, but he tears his eyes away from the pictures to look at his parents. 

"Your father and I have been looking into the incident at the station," his mother answers. "It's almost certainly a werewolf attack."

"If it's the same alpha then this is getting serious," his dad adds. "Killing another werewolf is one thing. Walking into the Sheriff's station and slaughtering a bunch of deputies? That's an extreme escalation."

Stiles edges closer to the table, tries to keep his movement relaxed and casual when he feels jittery and unnerved. He hasn't told either of his parents that he was at the station probably only minutes after Greyback finished slaughtering everyone. He hasn't told anyone anything about that night and he's not entirely certain why he's being secretive. Sometimes he thinks it's purely selfish, trying to avoid further restrictions on his personal freedom when his parents inevitably freak about his safety. Sometimes he thinks about the red flash of Derek's eyes and the way he had leaned into Stiles' personal space, warm breath puffing against the skin of Stiles' neck. 

The memory makes him shiver and Stiles covers the involuntary movement by reaching out, nudging at the photographs spread across the table. On any other occasion he knows he'd be curious. He'd ask questions and sift through evidence and generally insinuate himself into the discussion whether his parents wanted him there or not. 

He can't come up with a single question to ask that doesn't sound suspicious in his head.

It's quiet for a long stretch and when he glances up his mother is eyeing him with a neutral expression. "You don't know anything about this, do you?" 

Stiles shrugs. "No. Should I?"

Her mouth pinches and she stares at him a moment, before finally releasing him from her scrutiny. "Stay away from the Sheriff and the station. Are we clear?"

Relieved, Stiles backs away from the table and continues on toward the fridge, which had been his original destination. He says, "Like a big shiny crystal."

……………………………………………………

Parrish comes into the bakery about once a week to buy something for the other deputies. There are dark circles under his eyes and he looks exhausted but he always smiles when Stiles greets him and he always has an anecdote to offer as they exchange small talk.

Stiles never asks how things are going at work, never mentions how Parrish went from being the 'new guy' to being lumped in with what Stiles has heard people calling ‘the original staff of the sheriff's department’. Instead, he makes sure to slip a few extra butter cookies into the box because those are Parrish's favorites.

"You have a good night, Stiles," Parrish tells him as Stiles finishes packing the box of cookies and closes the lid. "Stay safe," he adds, his expression fond. He's already stuffed a few crumpled bills into the tip jar by the time Stiles has sealed the circular blue Gingerbread House sticker into place to keep the lid in place.

Since Parrish never says anything about the extra cookies, Stiles can't really say anything about how well the deputy tips. "Will do," he says instead, offering a wink and a flippant salute. It never fails to make the other man laugh. 

Staying safe in Beacon Hills is surprisingly difficult. Stiles hasn't even been living here for three months and he's already encountered two separate alpha werewolves and one omega; he's been attacked at the local Sheriff's station and in the middle of the street on his way to get ice cream. Before the move both of his parents had promised to be at home more, but now they're out hunting more often than not. It makes Stiles wonder if there's supernatural crap that isn't getting through because his parents are stopping it in time. Considering the number of strange deaths and animal attacks, that's sort of a depressing thought.

During the week, Stiles' shift ends when the bakery closes. The entire process is a familiar routine that starts when Reuben comes up to the front of the shop and says, "Hey, closing time," and Stiles flips the sign hanging in the doorway. 

They have the whole thing down to an art form: Reuben stowing what's left of the confections in the fridge as Stiles closes out the till; Reuben putting away the ingredients that have been left out and starting the dishwasher as Stiles wipes down the counters; both of them working together to flip the chairs onto the tables. It's all so familiar that Stiles performs the tasks unthinkingly and confidently. It's a ritual that ends when Stiles switches the lights off and joins his uncle by the front door, pausing as Reuben locks up.

Stiles is at the point of the ritual where he empties out the trash bins into one big bag to take out back to the dumpster. "Heads up," Reuben says as he passes by, tossing a crumpled wad of paper towels in an arch that lands perfectly in the center of the bag Stiles is carrying. 

"Ten points!" Stiles pauses by the office to peer inside, double-checking that he didn't forget that trash bin. "Heading out back," he announces, hip checking the backdoor open as he ties-off the bag he's carrying.

He hefts the lid of the commercial grade garbage bin, letting it clang against the brick wall as he chucks the bag into the trash. It's a chilly night and he hasn't bothered to pull on his jacket because there's still more to do in the shop before he can head out. Shivering, Stiles reaches up to drop lid back down when the pile of flattened cardboard boxes stacked in the corner of the alley shudders and then sneezes. 

Stiles almost has a coronary.

"Holy _god!_ " He gasps as he jumps away, his back knocking into the wall of the alley, winding him a little. He's in a semi-defensive crouch and he can get to his knife if he needs it but, as he stands there with his senses on high alert, it occurs to him that nothing has leapt out to attack him. 

Ever the realist, he waits for a few beats before he accepts that maybe there is a perfectly normal, mundane explanation for why a stack of cardboard boxes might be sneezing. Inching forward, he reaches out, mentally preparing himself to lose an arm, before he lifts the top layer of cardboard. 

A sour little face glares at him balefully from atop the pile, mismatched eyes narrowing with suspicion. There's a pathetically soft hissing emanating from the skinny little pile of tufted, shabby grey fur. It's a cat. Or at least, Stiles thinks it's a cat. It's difficult to say for certain since the lighting in the alley isn't that great, and the tiny creature is hunched over on itself, hidden mostly inside its makeshift den. Maybe it's an enormous rat. Whatever it is, Stiles can tell that the thing is homeless and has been fending for itself with only a marginal degree of success.

"Hey, tough girl," he greets softly, crouching down near the boxes to try and get a better look at the creature. He gets a throaty yowl and an indignantly swatting paw striking out in his general direction, claws unsheathed, as an answer. Those claws look incredibly sharp. 

Springing back to his feet before he loses an eye, he stares down into the glaring mismatched eyes set in a narrow, dirty grey face, and falls in love.

"Hey, Uncle Reuben?" He calls, rushing back inside. "Do we have any tuna or sardines or something around here?"

"This is a bakery, Stiles." Reuben's voice drifts out from the direction of the office. 

"I don’t know, maybe you baked some tuna-tarts." Stiles checks the fridges, and then raids the stock cupboard as he continues, "Or had a tuna sandwich for lunch, or maybe you keep cans of it in the cupboard for special occasions." 

The fridges in the bakery are obviously a bust. The creature, Stiles is going to just go ahead and consider it a cat, looked pretty rough and he remembers hearing somewhere that milk products of any kind are harder for a cat to digest. The stock cupboards yield nothing suitable either.

Defeated, Stiles emerges from the stockroom to find Reuben leaning against the door to the office, arms crossed over his chest, looking baffled. 

Kate used to say that for a while, back when they were all teenagers, Reuben and Stiles' dad could have passed as twins. Stiles had always thought that his aunt was delusional whenever she said that. Uncle Reuben has darker eyes and darker hair, and his smile is wide and crooked and easy. Right now though, the perplexed look he's giving Stiles is one Stiles knows from his dad. It suggests very strongly that the man suspects that Stiles might be on the fast-road to crazytown.

"What exactly is a tuna tart?" His uncle wonders. "And who the hell celebrates _anything by_ popping open canned fish?"

"You're just maddeningly unhelpful!" Stiles declares, shoving passed his uncle into the office to double-check the employee fridge. There's nothing. "Dammit."

"Do I want to know what it is you're attempting to keep alive?"

Stiles liberates a glass from the cupboard and carries it out to the sinks. "A cat," he answers as he turns on the faucet, carefully testing the temperature. "I think." 

There's a heavy sigh from behind him but Stiles is only half listening. "Hurry it up. Your dad will kill me if you get back late."

"The till is already closed out. I'm pretty much done. Just let me bring this out and turn over the chairs and then we're good." 

"I've done the chairs," Reuben says as Stiles turns off the tap and then cautiously carries the brimming glass out the back door. "You're getting water all over the floor."

"Whoops!" Stiles calls over his shoulder and then steps down into the alley. 

"This is the best I can do for now," he tells the cat, setting the glass down by the cardboard boxes. He receives no answer but he wasn't expecting one anyway. "I'll come by tomorrow. To be continued."

……………………………………………………

The next morning Stiles stops by the grocery store before school. He blitz-attacks the pet aisle, collecting tins of wet food and kitty treats before detouring through the canned goods section for some tuna and salmon. He sends a text when he gets back to the Jeep and by the time he's pulling up in front of the still closed bakery, his uncle is waiting at the front of the shop.

"I don't wanna know," Reuben says, leaning casually in the doorframe as he watches Stiles gather the bags from the back of his Jeep. There's a smear of flour over the bridge of Reuben's nose, and on his salmon pink apron. "You know, you're interrupting my baking."

"Yeah, I noticed that. But this is a mission of mercy," Stiles announces, ducking under his uncle's arm and into the shop, heading to the office. He makes quick work of unloading his haul, stacking tins in the cupboard.

"You better get a move on or you'll be late to school," his uncle calls. 

Stiles can hear the mixer switch on and knows Reuben has gotten back to work. "I won't be late. Promise," he answers as he pulls out the ceramic bowls he'd picked-up, spooning some wet food into one and filling the other with cool water. 

When he crosses through the baking area, a bowl in each hand, Reuben sniffs the air and cringes. "Oh, gross. You're stinking up my bakery." 

The back door is propped open as usual to let the heat from the ovens out, so Stiles is able to hip-check it out of the way without setting the dishes down. "Hey, pretty lady," he whispers, slowing his pace as he approaches the stacked cardboard. 

The boxes shiver as he places the bowls down, but the cat doesn't come out.

The glass of water he left the other day looks less full, which he takes as a good sign. Stiles empties it out near the door and then loiters in the alley until he has to leave to make it to school on time. He catches a glimpse of the cat's pink nose, so she's still there, but she doesn't emerge from her den.

"Okay, I'm heading out!" Stiles calls as he cuts through the bakery.

Reuben is in the process of wrangling dough into a croissant but he jerks his chin up and smiles. "Have a good day at school. Don't be late for work or I won't let you try the new recipe I'm working on."

Stiles pulls into the school's parking lot with five minutes to spare, a fresh cup of coffee in hand, and spots Danny climbing the front steps. "Hey, wait up!" he calls, popping out of his Jeep with his backpack already settled in place. 

Something smacks into him from behind just as he's reaching the sidewalk, sending him staggering forward. "Watch where you're going, Argent," Jackson hisses.

"Top o' the mornin' to you, jackass," Stiles says with exaggerated cheer, kicking himself into gear and jogging up toward where Danny is waiting. "FYI, your other friends are assholes."

Danny claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder, dragging him toward the school doors. "He's grumpy because your mom gave him a B- on his English essay."

"How is that my fault?" Stiles wonders. "Also, B-. Isn't that pretty good? I mean, for _Jackson_."

"Do we have to have this talk again?" 

Stiles holds up his hands. "Okay, okay. Ceasefire. But _he_ started it. Like usual." Danny raises an eyebrow, and Stiles shrugs. "What? If you think I'm gonna go out of my way to be nice to _Jackson_ when he's a massive…bully," he says, changing his word choice at the last minute when Danny's expression sharpens. "Then you're very wrong, my friend."

"I'll take what I can get, I suppose."

"I honestly don't get how you're friends with him," Stiles mutters, then forces a wide, false smile on his face as he turns to his friend, "but I _respect your choices._ " 

Danny snorts but otherwise doesn't comment.

……………………………………………………

The story begins, "Once upon a time," because Grandpa Gerard says all bedtime stories begin like that. Stiles doesn't ever point out that some of his favorite ones don't start that way at all, like _The Wind and the Willows_ or _The Velveteen Rabbit_.

Unlike Stiles' other bedtime stories this one doesn't come from a book. Grandpa Gerard says he makes it up as he tells it, the way storytellers used to do a long, long time ago. Whenever Stiles asks to hear it his grandpa recites it the same way. Stiles thinks that his grandpa must have a very good memory.

"Once upon a time," Grandpa begins, and Stiles wriggles down under his blankets, clutching his brown rabbit close to his chest. "There lived a beautiful maiden and a bold knight who fell in love at first sight."

In the story, the knight and the maiden married and lived happy, peaceful lives until one day the maiden became very sick. So sick that none of the town's healers knew how to help her. Grief-stricken at the prospect of his wife's death, the knight searched for a cure but found nothing. 

On his way home from one of his searches, the knight crossed paths with a weary traveler. Being generally good-hearted, he offered the woman food and lodging for one night and the woman gratefully accepted. 

At this point in the story Stiles wriggles in his bed, unable to contain his excitement and inevitably his grandpa pauses, his dark grey eyebrows arching upward as he reaches out, his fingers tickling into Stiles' sides, making him squeal and giggle. 

"My grandson has been replaced by a wriggle monster!" Grandpa declares as he keeps tickling until Stiles has retreated under a mound of blankets and pillows. 

"I know what happens next," Stiles whispers, peeking out from beneath the blanket mound.

"Do you?" Grandpa Gerard always asks, no matter how many times he's told this story. When Stiles nods, Grandpa cups a hand behind his right ear and leans forward, "Tell me," and so Stiles whispers what he knows in his grandpa's ear. "You know, I think you might be right." When Stiles has resettled on his bed, Grandpa Gerard continues.

The next morning, after sleeping in a soft bed and eating a warm meal, the grateful traveler revealed that she was in fact a witch and she promised the knight that she had a cure for the mysterious ailment that plagued the maiden. 'I will cure your wife,' the witch vowed, 'If you promise to grant me one favor, whenever I should ask for it.' Relieved, the knight and the maiden accepted these conditions, and the maiden was cured.

A few years passed and the couple had returned to their peaceful, happy lives. They had a baby, bright-eyed and clever even at his young age, and everything was perfect. 

"But then the witch returned," Stiles fills in, impatient.

"Yes," his grandpa confirms. "Then the witch returned and asked for a favor. In exchange for her healing spell she demanded that the couple give her their little boy."

Naturally the couple begged and pleaded, but the witch threatened to undo her magical cure and take the child as well, and in the end they had no choice. The witch took the little boy away, intending to use him in a powerful spell. As they travelled together, though, she realized that the child was quite special. Too special, in fact, to simply be an ingredient in a spell. "Like newt's eyes," Stiles offers. So the witch relented, and she brought the boy to the king and queen as an offering. Recognizing that the boy was special indeed, the king and queen took him in and made him their prince.

"And everyone lived happily ever after. Forever and ever, right Grandpa?"

"Of course," Grandpa Gerard says, smoothing back Stiles' hair from his forehead. "Good night, my little prince."

Stiles smiles. "Good night, Grandpa."

……………………………………………………

Kate comes into the kitchen just in time to find Stiles drowning a plate full of apple slices in chocolate sauce. "What in God's name are you doing?" She asks, sounding as fascinated as she does horrified.

Licking chocolate from his thumb, Stiles chomps into a wedge of apple and shrugs. "I wanted a snack." He smacks his lips loudly as he chews. What he'd actually wanted was some sort of sugary sweet, but for all that his uncle is a baker and Stiles actually works in a bakery, there are never many treats around in the house. 

"That's disgusting." Kate regards him, clearly appalled, and then picks up an apple wedge of her own, biting into it. Her face shifts to a considering frown. "You know what this needs?" she says after a moment of contemplative chewing.

Idly, Stiles licks a straying drip of chocolate sauce from the corner of his mouth and quirks an eyebrow, but Kate is already opening the fridge. She emerges a moment later brandishing a can of whipped cream with a triumphant smile.

"Oh hell yes." He pushes the plate toward her as she shakes the can and then buries the chocolatey apple slices under a mound of white whipped cream. "Mm, much better." He takes a bite.

"So," Kate says, after a stretch of quiet chewing. "Are you gonna tell me what's bothering you?"

Carefully Stiles glances at his aunt, his eyes dropping away quickly when he finds that she's watching him. He shrugs. "Who says anything is bothering me?" 

Kate's smile stretches up at the corners of her mouth, almost but not quite a grin. "Please, kiddo. When you're stressing yourself out about something you deal with it in one of two ways: caffeine or sugar. Caffeine when it's something you've decided to conquer through research, and sugar when you feel like crap about something you have little to no control over."

Stiles makes a face. "You make me sound like a stress-eater."

"You _are_ a stress-eater."

Stuffing the last apple slice into his mouth, Stiles crosses his arms over his chest and aims a glare at his probing aunt. She laughs. "Hey, did I say this was an intervention? I just asked what's wrong."

Stiles can't put his finger on what's bothering him and figures it's a little bit of everything. Studying for midterms and applying to colleges; the seemingly arbitrary hatred his chemistry teacher has for him; the freaky shit going on in Beacon Hills; Derek Hale and his habit of magically appearing when Stiles least expects to see him but often just in time to save Stiles' butt (not that Stiles would ever admit this); and the cat that he's still trying to woo into a state of security strong enough that he can present it to his mother as a viable pet. 

There's just a lot of shit he's dealing with. 

Stiles huffs and flops his arms onto the counter, slumping forward. Then he huffs again and the sad, slow exhalation of air sounds both melodramatic and pathetic at once. He drops his forehead down onto his arm.

"Christ, kiddo." Kate laughs, patting a hand on his back. "Okay, answer me honestly," she says, after a moment. "Is this actually cutting it for you?" She points toward the chocolate and whipped cream covered dish. When Stiles sighs again Kate rolls her eyes. "My god, you're embarrassingly pathetic right now." She slaps his thigh. "Come on, get your butt in gear and get in the car."

"Why? What are you gonna do to me?" he asks, not bothering to raise his head.

"I'm gonna drag you to the grocery store for an emergency cake mix run."

Stiles sits up abruptly. "We're making a cake?"

"Don't get too excited, kiddo. Your uncle Reuben's not available so it's gonna be a box of mix and a jar of icing."

"There'll be icing?" He cackles, shoving the messy plate into the sink. He jostles his aunt when she shoves him, both of them elbowing at each other as they head to the front door, snatching keys and coats as they go.

Driving has always been relaxing to Stiles. When he was little and too keyed-up to go to sleep his mom used to drive him around. After he got the Jeep he discovered that the freedom of having his own space, of being able to select his own destination added to the whole experience, and he has always found driving to be the best way to compartmentalize. An easy way to delineate between 'now' and 'then'. 

The drive to the grocery store is just long enough for the tension to seep from his shoulders. He decides that for the rest of the night the only thing he'll worry about will be baking this cake, and whether it should be a tiered cake or maybe just three separate ones, chocolate with chocolate icing or angel food cake.

So naturally, his luck being what it is, Stiles bumps into Derek Hale in the middle of the baking isle. "Are you kidding me?" Stiles blurts, twisting around sharply, sneakers screeching against the linoleum, to check over his shoulder and make certain his aunt hasn't returned from picking up the butter and cream. 

Derek blinks at him with his stupid multi-colored eyes. 

Stiles hisses, "What are you doing here?" 

"Buying groceries," Derek answers blandly. "Are you," his eyes drop down to the three boxes of cake mix that Stiles is cradling in his arms, "baking a cake?"

Stiles jerks his chin up, eyes narrowing. "Devil's food cake. Are you stalking me?" He receives a blank stare as his answer and it only takes a moment before Stiles realizes that he's maybe acting a little aggressive considering they're in a grocery store and Derek is actually carrying a plastic basket packed with food stuffs. 

"Whatever, I retract that question. Tough week, you know how it is." Stiles goes to scratch his cheek only to remember that his arms are currently filled with his own groceries as Kate took-off with their basket, He settles for jerking his shoulder up, rubbing his itchy cheek against the cotton of his shirt. It's not entirely dignified. 

He clears his throat. "So, fancy meeting you here … in this place."

"I got tired of eating squirrel."

Stiles blinks and then blinks again. "Wait, seriously?"

"No," the alpha says with an exaggerated eye roll.

"Oh." There's an awkward silence where Stiles thinks that they should probably both just carry on their separate ways, and yet Derek seems as reluctant to move as Stiles suddenly feels. For one uncomfortable moment Stiles all too vividly recalls how Derek stepped in close to him the last time they'd met, and Stiles had been able to smell the fresh scent of him and feel the heat coming off the alpha's body. The memory makes him shiver.

Abruptly, he turns to stare at the shelves of icing he finds conveniently at eye-level. It takes him a moment to realize that he does, in fact, need to buy icing and he happily distracts himself debating between 'Rich and Creamy' chocolate or 'Creamy Deluxe'. There doesn't seem to be any difference beyond the name. They're even the same brand.

In the end, when he thinks he might have spent more time staring at the labels of icing than can be reasonably explained, Stiles grabs one of each and settles them awkwardly atop the boxes he's holding. Keeping them in place with his chin. When he turns, prepared to end this awkward exchange and say 'so long' to Derek, he realizes that the alpha's eyes are fixed on something. 

Stiles follows the alpha's line of sight and freezes. "Oh, uh, yeah. Remnant from my rebellious youth." With his arms full he can’t hide his wrist, can't even tug the sleeve of his hoody back down like he normally would. He ends up floundering, almost dropping his groceries before finally, inevitably, giving up.

During all of this, Derek has remained still, stoic and frowning with his dark brows drawn tightly together. "It's permanent?"

Of all of the reactions Stiles has gotten over the years, which have ranged from casual interest to jealousy to full-out mockery, not a single person has asked this question. It throws him off. "It's a tattoo." Derek's eyes flick up to meet Stiles's, fixing him with an intense and unblinking stare. Clearing his throat, Stiles elaborates, "A tattoo is, by definition, permanent."

Derek keeps glaring. Stiles clears his throat again. "Dude, you're growling. It's not that big a deal. I kinda like it, you know? I mean I get teased. Like, a lot. But still…"

"Is that an Argent tradition?" Derek asks, cutting him off. "The … tattooing?" 

"Nah. I'm just special." He goes to rub a hand over the back of his, remembers his armful and shifts restlessly on his feet. Questions about the mark make him anxious, which is part of the reason why he prefers to keep it covered. At least it's small, about an inch in diameter.

"It's nice," Derek says, after clearing his throat.

"Oh, uh, yeah. Thanks." It's the first time anyone has said anything positive about the design itself, mostly he's either cool for having a tattoo, or an idiot for choosing some bizarre spiral nonsense to put on the inside of his wrist. Stiles could explain the history and symbolism of the mark, or point out that he did not, in fact, have any say in it, but he never does. 

"It's a triskele," Stiles finds himself explaining. "It means…" he shifts on his feet and then almost loses his hold on his groceries, and then all at once he remembers why he's here at all, in the grocery store with an armful of baking ingredients. "Shit," he gasps. "My aunt's probably on her way back. She shouldn't –"

"I get it," Derek answers quickly, nodding sharply in good-bye before he steps away. "See you around."

"Sure, right." 

Kate appears just as Derek steps around the other end of the isle. Stiles thinks she probably didn't see the alpha but he can't be certain. "Took you long enough!" he says with forced brightness, hoping he doesn't sound like someone who was just casually conversing with a werewolf in the middle of the baking isle. "Hurry up, my arms are about to fall off!" He dumps his armful of goods into the basket she's carrying the moment she's close enough. 

"Hey, question," he says, holding up a palm when it seems like Kate's going to leave the isle. "Rich and Creamy? Or Creamy Deluxe? Any thoughts? For icing, I mean."

Kate makes a face. "Those are actually two different options?" When Stiles simply shrugs, she shrugs back. "No preference."

"Good. I got one of each." He steps out of her way and falls into step beside her. "Need me to take the basket?"

"I'm good." She throws an arm around his shoulders as they make their way to the checkout.

There's no one in line, so Stiles starts unloading their basket as Kate holds it, braced, at the edge of the conveyor. "Hey, you know, if Grandpa Gerard is really coming for Thanksgiving, there's no way he'll let us make shit like this."

"That's very true," Kate says. "But then you know him. He'll probably take over the kitchen and make a different fancy dessert for every night he's in town. Is that part of what's bothering you?" Kate asks, disrupting Stiles' train of thought. "Your grandpa coming round?"

His answer is delayed as the cashier rings up their purchase and Stiles shifts down to the end in order to help bag the groceries. As they head back to the Jeep, though, he says, "It's always weird whenever he visits. Mom and Dad have these silent glaring arguments and I'm pretty sure I could cut the tension in the house with a knife. I mean, Mom and Dad are wound pretty tight as it is, after the whole thing at the sheriff's station…"

"Mm." Kate climbs into the passenger seat, settling her bags by her feet as Stiles swings his own bags into the trunk. She waits until he's climbed up behind the wheel to say, "The 'thing' where an alpha waltzed in and slaughtered half the department, you mean?"

"Yeah, that thing," Stiles says wryly. The alpha that's still out there, that so far they've been unable to track. "I keep imagining Thanksgiving as one long cycling performance of No Exit, where grandpa force feeds us crème brulé and makes passive aggressive comments to Mom about her decision to move to a town where an alpha can kill a bunch of cops and get away scot-free."

"God you really are melodramatic. It won't be _that_ bad."

"I know you weren't around much, did you not hear about the fiasco the last time he was over? Where he tried to ground me for going out to a party that dad specifically gave me permission for? In front of my friends?"

"He's not gonna complain about Beacon Hills," Kate says, and then smirks. "Much." Stiles snorts. "Is that the only thing that's thing that's stressing you out?"

"Aw, no. There's also midterms, and college applications and how Mom wants me to stay in California and Dad won't be happy unless I'm in an Ivy League school and my stupid chemistry teacher that’s determined to grade me so unfairly that I stand no chance of getting into any school…"

"Wow, hold up. A teacher's giving you trouble at school?"

Stiles remembers his decision to not think about all of this stuff for the rest of the night and gives a mental sigh.

It's why he finds himself shrugging and saying, "I figured it was a rivalry he had with Mom or something, since she stepped in to cover my English teacher's maternity leave. But it turns out it's just a personal vendetta that I have no idea how I triggered. I mean, he hated me pretty much from day one."

Kate eyes him suspiciously. "What did you do to him?"

"Hey, you're supposed to be on _my_ side," he informs her, half insulted. "And I didn't do _anything_ he just hates me. Case in point, today I got detention for raising my hand in class to answer a question. Seriously, the level of antagonism is getting to be something out of a YA novel."

Kate's smile is all sharp teeth and glinting eyes. "Is he Snape to your Hermione?"

"Totally," Stiles confirms, and then glances over at his aunt and waits.

She doesn't disappoint. "It's Levi- _OH_ -sa," she starts, and Stiles joins to finish, "Not Levio- _SA_." 

He finds himself updating her on all sorts of aspects in his life, including the cat he's all but adopted. "You named her Cinderella?" Kate scoffs. "Are you kidding me right now?"

"What's wrong with Cinderella? That's a totally fine name. She's soot grey, and she's living in squalor and eventually I'm gonna go all Fairy Godmother on her furry butt and take her to the vet which, granted, isn't as exciting as the ball but, whatever. She's a cat." If his parents refuse to let him bring Cinder home, he is fully prepared to hide her in his laundry hamper until he graduates high school.

"Hey, maybe you could talk to my mom about it?" he says casually, like this thought is only just now occurring to him. "I mean, I'm pretty sure dad won't mind so long as mom doesn't, and –"

"I knew you were working an angle." 

"Cats are useful," Stiles argues, slowing the Jeep so he doesn't smack into the car ahead of him, which has decided to suddenly break. "It's not just napping and catching mice they're good for, they can sense all sorts of supernatural stuff. I bet it would be really useful for a hunter to have one around. Extra security."

"What is with this traffic?" Kate wonders, stretching up in her seat in an effort to see further ahead. 

Stiles hadn't been paying much attention to the road beyond watching what the car ahead was up to, but when he looks he sees a line of break lights. "Rush hour in Beacon Hills?" 

"It's passed seven, hon, try again." They share a look and then, in unison, glance to the backseat to make sure Stiles' old gym bag that now holds his favorite weapons is readily accessible.

As they inch forward Stiles can see the flashing red and blue lights spinning up ahead and his fingers tighten on the steering wheel. "So much for a quiet little town," he mutters. Kate gives him a sharp look but doesn't say anything.

There aren't many cars on the road but the street has been narrowed down to two lanes in order to make room for the Sheriff's Department vehicles and an ambulance. Every car is slowing down to gawk at the scene, which means traffic is moving at a crawl. 

Stiles isn't that much better as he and Kate both squint out the windshield toward the lights and the chaos, all of which seems to be centered around the local video store. He can see a smashed window at the front of the store and a lone car sitting in the parking lot with a severely dented hood.

"I wonder what happened," Kate murmurs, but Stiles isn’t listening. He's spotted a familiar head of strawberry blond hair behind the yellow line of caution tape and jerks the wheel sharply, pulling the Jeep over to the curb. "Wow, hold up, what do you think you're doing?" Kate demands when he punches his emergency lights on and reaches for the door.

"Lydia?" Stiles calls, ignoring his aunt as he scrambles from the Jeep. "Lydia!" 

He skids to a stop when Deputy Parrish holds up a hand to him. "Wow, slow down, Stiles. What's going on?" There's another deputy unspooling crime scene tape; she steps carefully around Parrish as she cordons off the area.

"It's just-" Stiles takes a breath, tries to calm down and motions to where Lydia is standing. "I know her."

A few feet away, Lydia is bent in on herself, her shoulders hunched, arms crossed like she's trying to make herself as small as physically possible. Like she's trying to disappear. Her head jerks upward after a second, though, and she glances over, fixes Stiles with wide, dazed eyes. "Stiles?"

"Hey," Stiles greets with an awkward little wave. Parrish twists around, frowning as Lydia straightens up and totters forward on unsteady feet. "Hey, are you okay?"

Further back by the ambulance Jackson is making a scene, mouthing off at another deputy, shoving at the paramedics who are trying to apply a thick bandage to the spot where his shoulder meets his neck. Stiles wonders if he has to worry about vampires in Beacon Hills now.

"It came out of nowhere," Lydia breathes as she inches closer to him. "It broke right through the glass."

"You can't cross the line," Parrish says when Stiles takes an involuntary step forward.

Stiles raises his hands up and steps back. "Nope, not crossing. Just … that's my friend."

"I'll take it from here, Parrish," the Sheriff says. Parrish nods once at Stiles, and again at the Sheriff before he turns away, presumably to help subdue Jackson. Apparently, the paramedics have decided to take Jackson to the hospital and are endeavoring to coax him into the ambulance. 

When he looks back, Stiles realizes that the Sheriff is watching him with a measuring gaze. "It's Argent, right?"

Rubbing at the back of his head, Stiles shrugs. "Uh, yeah. Stiles is fine, though." 

Lydia has shuffled right up to the tapeline. She's shivering despite the scratchy orange blanket that one of the paramedics must have given her. She's clutching the blanket under her chin and her mascara is smudged under her eyes. Stiles knows she's suffering from shock because otherwise she'd be furious that anyone from school saw her like this.

"This your girlfriend?" the Sheriff asks, nodding toward Lydia.

"What?" Stiles startles, looks sharply at Lydia and then around in case there is some other girl standing nearby, one that Stiles might stand a chance of actually dating. There isn't. He flounders for another second, and shakes his head adamantly. "No! She's my friend."

Lydia finally comes to herself enough to level an imperious if slightly wide-eyed look somewhere between Stiles and the Sheriff. "I'd like to go home now." 

"Yeah, I get that." The Sheriff sighs, tapping his pen against the small notebook he's got flipped open in one hand. He glances over his shoulder to the ambulance and then over to Stiles, before he turns to Lydia. "Jackson's being taken to the hospital. I can have a deputy drop you off…"

"Stiles can take me home," Lydia says, already ducking under the police tape and slipping the blanket from her shoulders.

Startled, Stiles meets her eyes. They're not that close; outside of lab assignments and the superficial conversation around the lunch table they don't hang out. When she looks at him, though, Stiles finds himself nodding sharply. "Yeah, absolutely," he says. "I can do that." 

There's a tight, grimacing smile that crosses quickly over the Sheriff's face, and he jerks his chin at something beyond Stiles' shoulder. "That your Jeep over there?"

Even though he already knows that it is, Stiles turns around to where his Jeep is haphazardly parked with the emergency lights flashing. Kate's leaning against the passenger door, staring at him. "Yeah, it is," Stiles confirms, turning back to the Sheriff. "And my aunt. We were on our way back from the store." 

"Alright then." The Sheriff tilts his head meaningfully toward Lydia and says, "Could you give us a second?"

Stiles almost trips over his feet in his haste to comply, heading back to his truck as the Sheriff has a few more words with Lydia. 

"Are you sweet on her?" Kate hisses when Stiles gets close enough. "Picking up traumatized girls now?"

"No and more emphatically, _no_ ," Stiles answers. "I'm just gonna drop her back home, so _please_ just move to the backseat and try to be nice." He sighs, realizing if he doesn't give his aunt anything more, she'll keep pestering him. "She's a friend from school that's all, and…" but he can't finish because Lydia comes up right then. 

He steps away, giving her room to climb into the Jeep and then closes her door for her and then bounds around to the driver's side because he doesn't trust his aunt; sometimes she has zero concept of subtlety and tact.

Sure enough when he gets behind the wheel Kate is leaning forward between the seats, trying to coax Lydia into explaining what happened. "You don't have to talk about it," Stiles interrupts hastily, flashing a pointed look at Kate in the rearview mirror. "Do you want to stop by the hospital? Maybe check on Jackson? Or do you want to go straight home?"

Lydia shakes her head, nudges her foot against the plastic bag taking up space in the foot well. "Why do you have a bag filled with frosting?"

"Late night Death by Chocolate Cake craving?" Stiles answers with a helpless shrug. "Lydia, that's my aunt Kate, by the way. Kate, this is Lydia, my chemistry partner."

"Pleasure." Kate flashes a smile that's all teeth and Lydia 'hmm's an acknowledgement but mostly seems to be staring out the window. After a beat, Stiles flicks off his hazard lights and merges into the string of traffic.

"I want death by chocolate," Lydia declares. "You wouldn't mind, would you? If I crashed your party?"

"Of course not," Kate answers before Stiles can, even if Lydia is looking to him to reply. "We bought enough to make about three cakes."

"The plan was to make a tiered cake," Stiles points out.

"You bake." Lydia shakes her head like she's having trouble imagining it.

Frowning, Stiles glances sideways at her, half-concerned because what if she's concussed or something? What if she's lost memory and the paramedics missed it. "I work in a bakery."

"And I _know_ that," Lydia says, a little snippily. Stiles instantly relaxes. "It’s just hard to picture. Okay?"

He shrugs. "Jackson doesn't bake? I don't believe it. I bet he makes tiramisu and fancy little desserts that require little blowtorches and shit when his parents are out of town."

Lydia scoffs. "Please. Jackson knows how to dial the phone and answer the door and hand over his credit card. He's…. He's…" she trails off and a shudder runs through her. Her lips press together and she turns to stare out the window again. 

Stiles flashes his aunt a pointed glare in the rearview mirror when she starts to open her mouth. Silence descends on the car. 

When they finally pull into his driveway it's a relief. Lydia slides out of the Jeep and marches up to the front door while he collects the grocery bags from the trunk and Kate eyes him, assessing. "Hey," he says, when his aunt moves to step away. "I know we were gonna do this together but…" 

Kate grins sharply. "You _are_ sweet on her." Her eyes shift as well, checking out Lydia where she's standing by the door. "Don't you think she's a little out of your league, kiddo?"

"What? Thanks a lot, aunt K. Way to be supportive." He huffs out an irritated breath and then says, "Lydia and I are just _friends_ , and the only reason I am suggesting you give us space is because I can tell you're itching to pump her for information about whatever happened and I can also tell she's freaking out about it and the _last_ thing she needs is someone harassing her."

"Fine!" Kate rolls her eyes, and then she smirks. "Go on then. And if you can, try and _pump_ her for information."

Stiles cringes at the insinuation, and then glares. "I thought she was out of my league?" Ignoring him, Kate carries her bags up to the door.

……………………………………………………

What was supposed to be a chill night of half-assed baking, goofing off with his aunt and letting off steam becomes a focused if somewhat strained dance with Lydia Martin similar to the one they perform every chemistry class when they have to do an experiment. There is minimal talking even though Stiles has to actively and persistently struggle to keep quiet, and sometimes he feels like he's getting in Lydia's way and other times they move around each other like their movements have been choreographed, but somehow, just like in chemistry class, the end result is a complete success.

"Not that it's hard to mess up a cake mix," Lydia says thoughtfully. She's long-since repaired her smudged make-up and fixed her hair, and as the night progressed she also lost the haunted look in her eyes and regained some color. 

She glances at the clock and winces. "I should probably go home." 

Stiles had noticed that she hadn't phoned or even texted her parents since she climbed into the Jeep. He hasn't had any occasion to meet the Martins, but he senses they're not a close family. Stiles has had some epic shouting matches with both of his parents but he knows he'd call them right away if anything involving the police and paramedics ever happened to him. Adopted or not, they're his parents.

"I can box some of this up," he says. "Wouldn't want you to go home empty handed after all your efforts." Stiles selects an adequately sized piece of Tupperware, and then cuts a large wedge of cake for Lydia to take home. 

As he snaps the lid closed over the cake slice he glances up and realizes she's still standing where he left her, staring down at the screen of her phone. "Lydia? You okay?"

"I need to tell you something, Stiles," she says, quietly. "It's crazy, and I likely imagined half of it, and it's probably better if I don't say anything at all but if I keep this to myself any longer I think I could actually go crazy and I just…."

"Hey." He drops the Tupperware on the counter, wrapping his hands gently over her shoulders. "Lydia, I promise, there isn't anything you could tell me that would freak me out, okay?"

She stares right into his eyes for a while, searching, like she expects to find something there. Whatever she sees must settle her because she takes a breath and then she's talking, "Jackson went in to pick up a movie. His parents are out of town. We were supposed to have a date tonight, but that _thing_ … it came out of nowhere. And I don't even know what happened because I was in the car _waiting_ , and all of my attention was on my stupid phone…"

"It's okay," he soothes because she glares accusingly at her phone and Stiles knows how useless guilt-spirals are. 

She squeezes her eyes closed, like this is the worst part of the story, "I didn't know anything was wrong until the glass shattered and that thing jumped out." Taking a breath she flicks her eyes up to his and then away again. "I was messing around on my phone while Jackson was being hurt and … Stiles, it looked _right at me_."

He hesitates, steeling himself for the question. "Do you remember what it looked like?"

"Of course I do, and that's the crazy part," Lydia says, so quietly she's barely making any noise at all. "I remember it had a lot of hair, and a long nose and…" her gaze shifts up to meet his, apprehensive. "And it had red eyes."

He swallows. "Lydia did … was Jackson hurt? Like, was he bitten, maybe?"

"I don't know. He was unconscious; there was a lot of blood. I don't know what it did to him. Stiles." She gulps. "I don't want my yelling at him because he threatened not to rent _The Notebook_ to be the last thing I ever said to him."

"Oh no, Lydia, no …" he doesn't know what else to say, settles for giving her a hug because she's crying however silently. "It's gonna be okay, you'll see," he tells her. "Jackson is going to be okay." 

He doesn't necessarily believe his own words. "Come on, I'll drive you home."

Nodding, she accepts the Tupperware when he hands it to her. "Thanks, Stiles." She smiles, and it's friendly and warmer than he's ever seen her look at him before. "I don't just mean for the cake."

……………………………………………………

By Monday Jackson is back in class, as much of a condescending dick as ever, no residual effects from the Friday night attack, and no sign of injury visible that Stiles can see.

Stiles talks with Lydia during their lab in chemistry and while she's a little quieter than usual she insists that she's fine and hasn't noticed anything off about Jackson at all, so Stiles resolves not to tell his parents what she told him about the attack. 

It's not like it's the only werewolf-related secret he's keeping from them.

On Wednesday a boy is found floating in a pond in the Forest Preserve. Not exactly a werewolf's MO. There's talk that it might have been a suicide and Stiles wonders if the high school will bring in grief counselors or hold a memorial or something since he was a junior, but nothing happens.

"The school doesn't have any plans that I know of," Stiles' mom tells him when he asks. She regards him steadily for a moment. "I don't need to tell you not to repeat this, but it's not certain that his death was a suicide. Of course, the Sheriff's department hasn't ruled it out yet, but they're exploring other possibilities."

"Because something was weird about it?" She raises a pointed eyebrow at him, and Stiles pushes. "Something supernatural?" 

She smiles thinly. "The boy drowned. Not many supernatural creatures would elect to kill that way, Stiles. You know that."

"Could be a kelpie. Or a mermaid?"

"A mermaid living in what's essentially a pond in the middle of the woods?" his mom asks wryly.

Just once, Stiles wants to meet a freaking mermaid. "Okay, point taken."

It makes his mom chuckle, and she pats his arm. "I know there's been a lot of unusual activity lately, but sometimes terrible things happen without a supernatural reason for it. Maybe this was simply an unfortunate accident, or maybe it wasn't an accident at all. But either way, I think it's too soon to be reading into it, don't you?"

It makes Stiles antsy. There was so much supernatural pandemonium when he first arrived in Beacon Hills that this lull strikes him more as a calm before a storm than a sign that the previous month was an anomaly.

……………………………………………………

"Here kitty kitty," Stiles calls as he pushes open the backdoor of the bakery with his shoulder, opening a can of tuna. "Dinner time. Come and get it." He crouches down by the stack of flattened cardboard boxes and spoons out a portion of tuna into the fancy leopard-spotted cat dish.

"Hey there," he greets when she pokes her head out from behind the green commercial grade dumpster. Her pink nose tips up as she sniffs the air. "I've got your favorite, tasty tuna fish."

It's only been a few days but she's looking better, not as visibly malnourished. Her fur is still as matted and dull as ever, but this might simply have to do with the fact that she desperately needs a bath. 

He bought her a flea collar. She hadn't seemed overly concerned about it, had even sat patiently as he had fastened it around her neck and then proceeded to forget all about it. Stiles hadn't been so lucky. The moment the collar was locked in place Cinderella had been almost completely swallowed by a grey cloud as fleas began jumping ship from her furry body. It had been both disturbing and fascinating.

"There you go," he says as she settles by the dish. She's still cautious, but she's stopped being bothered by his presence, even permits him to stroke her back as she naps. "You enjoy that, I'm gonna freshen up your water."

Reuben glances up from the pie dough he's preparing as Stiles marches passed, leopard-spotted bowl in hand. "Wash your hands before you finish your break."

"Yeah, obviously." 

"I was talking to your dad the other day," Reuben continues as Stiles turns the tap on. "He mentioned the delivery van might need a tune up. Something about the air conditioning?"

Stiles fumbles the bowl and then bats a hand at the faucet, turning it off abruptly. "Repeat that."

People who have air conditioning cannot understand the uncomfortable, agonizing, horrific punishment that is living _without_ air conditioning. Anyone who says that it's an unnecessary luxury is lying. Stiles has a whole lecture he can deliver, at any given moment, on this entire subject that includes well-constructed and researched arguments regarding worker productivity and temperatures for optimal health. Has, in fact, given this lecture to his uncle Reuben, but also to his dad in an effort to convince him to join the fight against Reuben's stubborn insistence that the delivery van is working just fine. Even though the air conditioning has been broken since Stiles got here. Probably long before Stiles got here, even. 

It's cruel and unusual punishment. 

When Stiles turns around and narrows his eyes at his uncle, Reuben smirks at him. "You heard me. Would you be able to take it in next Monday?"

"Are you serious?" Stiles asks. "Because if you're joking right now, I quit. I'm not even joking. For real I quit. It's not fair to mess with my emotions like that."

Reuben laughs. "I'm serious, Stiles. It's high-time the thing was tuned up and since you've taken over all the deliveries, it's only fair that I make sure _everything_ is in working order."

"Oh my god." Stiles fans his face with his hands. "I'm actually getting emotional. This is a beautiful moment. I love you."

Reuben rolls his eyes, shaking his head. "Breaks almost over. Better hurry up and finish up with that beast in the alley."

Grinning, Stiles spins around and turns the faucet on again, picking up Cinder's bowl.

"Speaking off," Reuben continues. "Do you plan on removing her from my alley anytime soon?" 

"Yeah, of course." Stiles watches as the water fills up the bowl nearly to the top before turning the faucet off. "My mom's coming around, but she's insisting I can't bring Cinder home until she's been to the vet and is deemed healthy."

"So?"

Stiles snorts. "So, it's a delicate process. I've got to put her at ease so she'll trust me after that whole traumatic experience." His uncle smiles and shakes his head and Stiles carries the water dish back outside.

Cinder is waiting for him, sitting in the middle of the alley, flicking her fluffy grey tail impatiently. The moment Stiles sets the bowl down she wends around his legs and then parks her butt on the toe of his right sneaker and starts drinking.

Trapped as he is, Stiles takes a seat until she finishes, pleased when she elects to hunker down close to him to nap. "Lets make a date, you and I," he tells her. "Pretty soon, I'm taking you on a road trip. If everything goes well you could be eating dinner on fancy bowls and sleeping in a snugly kitty bed by next week, sound good?" 

She yawns widely and then rests her chin on her extended paw. Stiles waits as long as he can because she looks comfortable but in the end Reuben opens the door and calls him back to work. 

"But," Stiles says, gesturing meaningfully between himself and the cat that has pinned him in place with one extended paw resting on his shoe. 

"Yes, it's very cute. I'm not paying you to babysit strays."

"You're literally heartless," Stiles informs his uncle as he carefully picks-up Cinder's paw and settles it onto the cement before standing and heading back inside.

……………………………………………………

Jackson has been burning a hole in the back of Stiles' neck since class started. It's AP History and the teacher has given them a period to work on their essays, which means no one is going to call Jackson out on not paying attention. The entire class is silent, nothing but the scratch of pens and the rustle of paper.

At the front of the room, Mr. Tuttle is leaning back in his chair, feet kicked up on the desk, reading. Stiles is pretty sure the man's hung-over.

After fifteen minutes of enduring Jackson's glaring Stiles leans over and nudges Lydia's elbow. "Hey," he whispers, glancing towards the front of the room to make certain Mr. Tuttle hasn't noticed. It's possible the man has actually fallen asleep. "Hey."

"What, Stiles?" Lydia asks, exasperation heavy in her tone.

"How is Jackson, by the way?"

She narrows her eyes at him, her lips pursing. "He's fine. Why?"

"Really?" Stiles presses. "Fine?"

"Yes," she says, biting out the word sharply. " _Why?_ "

"Not a little extra cranky or irritable or murder-ragey?"

Lydia huffs and finally leans closer to him. "Stiles," she says, sort of breathy like she's about run out of what little patience she ever had. "What, exactly, are you getting at?"

He walks his elbows closer to the edge of his desk and hunches down further. "He's been glaring at me since class started."

"He doesn't like you."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "No, I know that. But usually he's able to put that aside in order to, you know, learn." He doesn't miss how Lydia's eyes stray to the right, undoubtedly seeking out Jackson.

"Well, maybe he finished this paper already."

Stiles raises his eyebrows at her meaningfully. "If he'd finished his paper he would have given it to you to edit. And by edit, I mean re-write."

"I don't edit _all_ of his papers, Stiles. Jackson isn't stupid."

"Really?" he asks, making sure to widen his eyes just a little. " _Really?_ "

She glares at him. " _Yes._ Now go away. Unlike _some_ people, I want to use this period to actually get work done."

Jackson is still glaring at him when Stiles resettles on his chair. Has been glaring at him throughout his conversation with Lydia, in fact. Stiles puts up with it for five more minutes, fidgeting in his seat and tapping his pen, trying and failing to focus on his work. Then he gives, spinning around and snarling, "Dude. Quit it!"

Jackson jerks in his chair, startled, his blue eyes widening. Maybe the guy wasn't glaring. Maybe he'd just zoned out while thinking about something that made him cranky. Privately, Stiles thinks that everything in the world makes Jackson cranky. Even Lydia Martin, which is slightly baffling really. 

Or maybe not, Stiles thinks when he glances over at her and she narrows her eyes at him. "What?" he mouths silently, tries to look guileless. It just makes her narrow her eyes all the more. "Et tu, Bruté?" he mouths. That earns him an undignified snort from her. He should get a prize or something.

When the bell rings he's quick to shove all of his things into his bag, already making a beeline for the door before he's even zipped up his backpack. Danny's standing in the hall and offers a lazy smile. "Come on, they're serving curly fries today."

"I know!" Stiles picks up speed only to slam to an abrupt and undignified halt as he collides with the solid bulk that is Jackson's chest. "Watch it," he mutters, even though he's eighty-five percent certain the collision was his own fault. Then he frowns and pokes at Jackson's pecs. "Wow, dude. Impressive." 

It takes him a second to realize what he's doing, standing in his history class and poking his arch nemesis in the chest. In his defense, it is a very nicely toned chest, but still. Hastily, Stiles pulls his hand back and braces himself for a snarling insult and threats of a restraining order. 

It doesn't come.

What he does hear is the distinct sound of an indrawn breath, feels the barest brush of contact along his hairline. "What the hell?" Stiles cries, flailing backward to put some space between him and Jackson. "Did you just _smell_ me?"

Jackson's face pinches, like he just took a bite out of a lemon. "No."

"You – you just…" Stiles sputters. He turns to Danny for some support but his best friend is talking to Lydia, both of them standing in the hall. He turns back to Jackson, accusing, "You totally sniffed me."

"You're a freak, Argent," Jackson drawls disdainfully, and then shoves Stiles backwards even further. "Get out of my way."

"Do I stink or something?" Stiles asks, holding his arm up in front of Danny's face.

Danny looks at him like he's maybe lost his mind, but shrugs. "No more so than usual."

"Jackson has officially boarded the crazy train."

Danny smirks and rolls his eyes. "I promise that he feels exactly the same way about you." 

"At least I don't go around sniffing people." It brings him to an abrupt halt because, holy crap. Sniffing.

"Uh, hey. So just out of curiosity, has Jackson been weird around you lately? Like, maybe growling or smelling you…"

Danny shoots him a sideways glance that very clearly says, 'what the fuck'. Out loud, Danny says, "You're so weird."

"But that's not a no."

"No! He hasn't smelled me. Now can we hurry up and get to the cafeteria? I don't want to spend an entire lunch listening to you bitch about how you missed out on curly fries."

Stiles blisses out for a moment, anticipating curly fries. "Mm."

Danny jostles him when they get to the lunch line, thrusting a tray in his hands. "Are you coming over after work? 

"No can do, study buddy. I've gotta pick the van up from the mechanic's." Stiles grins wide. "Today's the day, Danny. Today, finally, after years of agonizing agony, now my uncle has at last brought the freaking delivery van in to get the air conditioning fixed."

Danny laughs. "I have no idea how I forgot. You've been talking about it for a week."

Stiles collects a plate of fries and grins. "There is literally _nothing_ that can ruin this day for me."

……………………………………………………

"Hey!" Stiles has to shout to be heard over the drill the mechanic, Tony, is using on the bakery's van. "How much longer is this gonna take?"

There is no pause in the whirr of the drill as Tony answers, "Uh, maybe fifteen minutes." 

Stiles huffs. "You said fifteen minutes the last time I asked." He checks his watch. Tony has been telling Stiles 'fifteen more minutes' at fifteen minute intervals, and he's done it three times already. It's after nine, he had no idea this place even stayed open this late. 

Stiles rubs a hand over his face. "Look, if it's gonna be much longer I can leave it overnight again. Obviously that thing is not my only means of transportation."

The drilling stops and a second later Tony steps out from under the van, which is jacked up on a hoist. His wife-beater is grease-stained; his faded blue jeans slung low on his hips and if he weren't such an annoying prick Stiles might find the guy passingly attractive. "Look, I said fifteen minutes, buddy. Take a breath," Tony says, and then gets back to whatever it is he's doing, because he really is just that much of a massively annoying prick. 

If Stiles were a Sith lord he could use his dark powers to make Tony cry like a tiny child and repent his asshole-ish ways. Hell, if Stiles were a werewolf he could at least issue a passable snarl. Maybe flash his eyes and freak the bastard out. As it is, though, Stiles is just a human so he has to settle for seething quietly as he stomps back to the little shop where he's been waiting. For over forty-five minutes.

There's some sort of clear goop coating the outside doorknob, viscous and cool to the touch and entirely disgusting. "Oh, gross," Stiles grumbles, staring at his now glistening palm. "Quality establishment you're running here," he calls over his shoulder, not that Tony pays him any mind. "Very sanitary," he adds, mostly to himself, making a face at his glistening palm as he pushes his way through the door. The stuff makes his fingertips prickle, and he shivers.

There's nothing in the shop for him to wipe his hand on. There's not much in the shop at all, really, just a shelf with jugs of windshield wiper fluid, and a fine selection of car fresheners, but no wet-wipes or hand sanitizer. Not even anything behind the cash. He eyes the two chairs pushed against the wall critically, but the vinyl won't do much good against the tacky goop. 

Stiles considers scraping the stuff from his palm onto the edge of the counter but settles for smearing it on his own hoody instead, cringing as he does so. "Gross." His hand feels weird, tingly and still sort of sticky, but there's nothing he can do about that. He pulls his cellphone from his pocket and dials his dad.

The phone rings a couple of times and then cuts to his dad's messaging service. "Yo, Dad," Stiles says. "I'm still at Armor Tire getting the air conditioning installed. Apparently it's gonna be fifteen more minutes but, who knows because this is about the third time the guy's told me fifteen more minutes. Obviously, I'm gonna be late but I'll keep you posted as these exciting events unfold." 

He ends the call and then scrolls through his contacts, selecting his uncle's cell number.

"Hey, Stiles."

"Uncle Reuben! Why would you entrust the van to this craptastic mechanic? I'm pretty sure he's overcharging for whatever it is he's doing. Plus his time-management skills leave a lot to be desired. Or maybe he just can't actually tell time. Maybe it's both."

There's a pause over the line, a beat of quiet that Stiles is used to hearing from people as they try to process his exuberant conversation. "I take it the van won't be done tonight?" 

Stiles releases his breath in a gust and collapses backward, letting his shoulder hit the wall behind him. "I honestly cannot give you a straight answer, because this guy isn't giving me one. _Who knows_ , that's all I've got." 

Reuben sighs and then says something that Stiles doesn't catch over the screeching grind of whatever machinery Tony is using in the garage. "What? Sorry, I didn't catch that!" He plugs his free ear with his fingers, casts a dark glare out the shop window. 

"I said don't worry about the van," Reuben repeats. "Worst comes to worst it can stay in the shop another day. You can run tomorrow's deliveries in the Jeep. I'll reimburse you for gas."

"Sure thing. I'm gonna stay another fifteen though, see if maybe this time he means it." 

Tony isn't anywhere to be seen, but whatever tool he's using is sending out colorful sparks. Stiles has no idea how to repair a vehicle's air conditioning but he strongly suspects that Tony is just dicking around with the van. Clearly Stiles has to learn more about cars and car maintenance, if only to avoid being so flagrantly swindled when he next pays a visit to a mechanic.

There's a flicker of movement at the other end of the garage but when he looks Stiles can't see anyone else back there. "Thanks for calling, Stiles," Uncle Reuben is saying. "Don't stick around too long, y'hear? Your mom will talk my ear off if you don't get home before your curfew, and that woman gives one hell of a lecture."

Stiles only half hears what his uncle is saying because the hairs on the back of his neck are standing on end. "Sure thing." He scans the shadows of the garage, looking for any hint of movement. "See you tomorrow." 

Some part of Stiles, the part that prefers to stubbornly ignore a problem until it goes away, is insisting that he's overreacting. Paranoia tends to get the better of him when he hasn't gotten enough sleep. There's a larger part of him, however, conditioned by years of training and spurred by intuition, that has him pocketing his cellphone and moving to press his back against the wall between the shop door and the window.

If he's not overreacting, then he doesn't want whatever is in the garage to know he's here.

The shrill grinding whir emanating from the garage is the only sound. That and Stiles' steady breaths: in two-three, out two-three. 

When he was a kid he used to get panic attacks. After the first one his mom sat him down, taught him tricks to manage his anxiety. That was before anyone told him about werewolves and wendigos and all the things that go bump in the night. Once he started to train as a hunter he never felt half as scared and helpless as he used to. The panic attacks mostly stopped, but he still remembers the breathing techniques his mom taught him. 

Keeping his movements slow, in time with his steady breaths, Stiles pulls his knife from the holster strapped to his ankle, and then shifts cautiously to the right, just enough to peek through the window blinds and into the garage.

His eyes go to the van, up on the hoist with the side door missing, propped against the wall. "Seriously," Stiles mutters, glaring at it. "All I needed was a damned air conditioner. Is that too much to ask?"

Tony's on the far side of the van, all Stiles can see of him are his denim-clad legs and the sparks from the tool that's making the racket. Stiles' gaze narrows even more, and he dedicates another moment to dark thoughts aimed at the mechanic.

It's late and the only lights on in the garage are the ones shining directly over where Tony is working. They leave the rest of the garage in shadow. There's a gold sedan sitting up on another hoist, some other cars in various stages of (dis)repair, but nothing unusual.

When Stiles lets his eyes scan upward toward the ceiling he catches another flicker of movement and his eyes lock on rafters. There's something draped over the metal beam and Stiles makes a face. Is that a pet snake? That's got to be against regulations or something. It's one thing for a bookstore to have a cat, and personally, Stiles has always been a huge fan of that. But a mechanic's shop is sort of dangerous, and the humane society should be alerted about careless pet management.

Plus, if that's a freaking boa constrictor there should be a sign up on the window. Those things are dangerous. There's no training a freaking snake to sit, stay, and rollover. Boa constrictors are very large and enjoy crushing things. To death. Stiles went through a snake phase. He has a healthy respect for them, but crushed to death via frighteningly large constrictor snake is Stiles' seventeenth most horrible way to die, behind crushed to death by elephant, dismembered by orca whale, and plane crash.

As he stares, however, he realizes that he's not looking at a snake; he's looking at a tail.

A tail that is attached to a large, hulking _something_ that is currently making its way down from the rafters. "What the fuck?" he whispers to himself, ducking back away from the window to blink his eyes a few times.

When he peeks out the window again the creature has dropped onto the roof of the gold sedan, its tail thrashing from side to side. In the slightly better light, Stiles can make-out scales and a strangely shaped head. It looks like something out of an episode of _Buffy_.

He ducks back away from the window, fumbling for his phone. Stiles has no idea what the hell that thing is or what it wants, but in his experience anything that lurks around in the shadows and has creepy semi-translucent claws should be handled with care.

And with back up.

If he can just entirely skip the part where he gets into a fight with a supernatural creature in front of a _civilian_ that would be great. If training with his dad has taught Stiles anything, it's that witnesses are sometimes more dangerous to a hunter than the creatures themselves.

He types out a quick text, mass-sends it to his immediate family; no way is he taking the chance that someone is stuck in traffic or too far away or whatever. He needs help. ASAP. Chances are good that the knife in his hand and the mountain ash in his pocket aren't going to be enough to hold this thing off.

Peeking out the window once more, Stiles realizes that hiding in the shop and waiting for people with better weapons to come and take care of the problem is no longer an option. The lizard-thing has zeroed-in on Tony and is very obviously stalking him.

In his haste to pry open the shop door, Stiles drops his phone. He has to shout to be heard over the machinery. "Hey! Get away from the van!" 

The buzzing tool shuts down and Tony steps out from around the vehicle, shooting Stiles a particularly annoyed glare, like he thinks Stiles is just fed-up with waiting and intends to take his business elsewhere. 

"Get away from the van," Stiles repeats. " _Move!_ " He's waving his arms madly and gesturing to the hood of the bakery van where the lizard thing is peering down at them. Tony has enough time to shift from annoyed glaring to a confused frown as he looks up, and then the creature strikes. 

It swipes out with one clawed hand as Stiles skids to a halt, his arms pin wheeling, eyes shifting from the lizard to the mechanic. 

For just a moment the three of them create a tableau: the lizard staring unblinking, Stiles gaping, Tony frowning.

There's a thin line of blood across Tony's throat but it's not deep enough to do any real harm. Stiles is brought-up short, confused, wondering what the point of that attack was. Is that it? 

"Are you…" but he trails off because it's suddenly very clear that Tony is _not_ okay.

The mechanic makes a choked, gargling sound, his body going startlingly rigid, and then he just – topples backwards. He hits the ground, grunting at the impact, but he doesn't move. He just lies there. Totally still, blue eyes so wide that Stiles can the see the whites all around the man's pupils. He doesn't say anything, but those blue eyes shift left, fixate on Stiles and those eyes are very clearly screaming for help.

"Shit," Stiles gasps. Tony is paralyzed. Whatever the hell is on that lizard-thing's nails must be some sort of paralytic toxin, and Stiles is in a thin T-shirt and a cotton long-sleeved button-down; not exactly a lot of protection against nails that sharp.

But Tony's lying there, completely defenseless, and there isn't exactly a lot of options here. Not unless his dad or Kate or someone shows up in the next three seconds. 

Double shit.

As Stiles stands, mind whirring, trying to come up with some sort of strategy beyond 'stab with knife' and 'hope lizard-thing dies', the lizard thing starts to move. It hops down from the bakery van onto the red hoist and slashes out again, this time severing a thick black hose connected to the joist.

There's an angry hiss of steam and the next second the hoist starts to descend, bringing the full weight of the van along with it. Tony's head is lying right where the indentations in the cement show the hoist will come to rest.

"Oh shit." Stiles lurches forward, intent on dragging Tony to safety. He makes it three pitching steps before the lizard hops again, this time landing on near silent clawed feet between Stiles and Tony. It's warning hiss sounds almost identical to the noise that the steam is making as it leaks from the hose.

When Stiles dodges to the right the lizard screams. It's a noise that Stiles remembers from late night _Godzilla_ movie marathons, except this isn't a movie. This shit is actually happening right now. In real life. Right in front of him.

"Okay! Holy god!" Stiles holds up his hands as the lizard stalks closer to him. He's almost certain that the lizard can move faster than he can, and its got claws and big pointy teeth. Even its tail looks like it could do some damage. 

Desperate, Stiles looks around, tries to find something he can use, or some other way to get to Tony. It doesn't look good. 

Outside, there's a sudden clatter, like a raccoon has knocked over a metal garbage can. It's loud enough and near enough that it catches the lizard's attention, and Stiles doesn't waste the chance. He throws himself forward into a sprint, darting around the lizard and ducking its thrashing tail.

"Help me," Tony is saying and Stiles stretches out his arm, fingers brushing across the skin of Tony's shoulder as he tries to get a grip on the man. He's so close, he thinks, he's got this. 

And then two scaly arms lock around Stiles' chest. 

"No! Goddammit!" he screams as he's wrenched away, lifted clean off the ground, his arms pinned to his sides. Stiles starts kicking and thrashing as hard as he can but the lizard's grip doesn't lessen.

"Help, help me! _Please_." Tony is crying, Stiles can see the tear tracks on the man’s face, and the redness around the man's blue eyes. He redoubles his efforts, kicking his heels back sharply, hammering beats into whatever part of the lizard he reach. He's still clutching the knife in his hand but with his arms pinned he can't use it effectively.

He tries, jamming it as hard as he can against the lizard but with the awkward angle it keeps glancing off the creature's scales. He's fighting as hard as he can, his body hot with the exertion of it, his head pounding. Stiles realizes that he's screaming, yelling at the creature to let him go. The lizard is unmoved, its grip never loosening, its breath a steady puff of warm air against the side of Stiles' throat. 

With sickening resignation, Stiles realizes that the hoist has dropped too far. Even if he manages to break free he won't make it in time to pull Tony to safety. 

It's been years since he's had a panic attack, but he has one now. Hanging loose in the lizard's arm like a ragdoll, staring at Tony's red face and pleading eyes. Stiles can't breathe.

His rising panic, the increasingly loud thump of his heart and the hiccupping, frantic gasps he's taking as he tries to fill his lungs are almost loud enough to drown out all other sounds in the garage. Almost.

Scrunching his eyes closed, Stiles tries desperately to remember the breathing techniques his mom taught him, tries to concentrate on that instead of the slow grinding of the mechanical hoist and the snap and crunch of bone. The way Tony's pleading voice cuts out.

Stiles feels his stomach roil, nausea hitting him so hard his head starts to ache with it. He will never forget this sound. There's no way to bleach it out of his memory.

Everything goes hazy. The van, now settled on ground level, the shelves filled with tools, the diagnostic computer, all of it blurring into indistinct shapes. He thinks that he's about to die. Wonders if it will be the lizard that kills him or the fact that he still can't take in a breath that lasts beyond one Mississippi.

One, two three, he counts, but it's no use. By the time he reaches three he's already taken six breaths. The lizard is still holding onto him, Stiles thinks it's the only reason he's not lying on the ground. His legs don't feel strong enough to hold him up at the moment, even if his feet could touch the floor.

It's possible that Stiles loses track of time. 

One moment the world is tinged faintly white, everything around him bleeding into one congealed miasma. Then suddenly the lizard is hissing loudly in his ear. Stiles can feel the vibrations against his back where it's pressed to the creature's chest. He has a second to wonder if this is it, and then he's slammed down, face-first, onto the cold concrete. Hard enough to knock what little breath he has out of him. But it knocks his mounting panic loose, too, so Stiles counts it as a win.

"What the hell?" he wheezes, cheek mashed into the cold concrete. All the air is being squeezed from his body, the weight of the lizard an uncomfortable press along his back. He can barely draw in any air and Stiles is one hundred percent certain he's going to have a horrible bruise on his face come morning. 

Provided he makes it through this alive.

Actually, if he dies his corpse will probably still have a bruise. At least one.

Stiles has no intention of dying without a fight, though. Wriggling, he tries to test how much space he has to maneuver in his current position. Not much, as it turns out, but when he twists his head up to get a look around he realizes that the lizard isn't actually focused on him.

It's got him pinned down, sure, but it's glaring its beady lizard eyes at something directly in front of it. Stiles twists his head again, chin scraping against concrete as he looks and catches sight of Derek, wolfed-out and waiting, red eyes glancing between the lizard and Stiles, like he's calculating his attack.

"Derek?" Stiles gasps, blinking. "How are you even here right now?"

Derek frowns at him. "I think there's a better time to have this discussion."

That's probably true. Voicing that question took up pretty much all of Stiles' oxygen and it takes him a moment to draw in enough breath to respond. He does it as quickly as he can, though, because his brain is coming back online and Stiles realizes that Derek's about to face-off with the lizard without knowing a crucial piece of information. "Its claws," Stiles rasps. "Watch them … there's some sort of…"

The rest of his sentence is cut-off by the lizard's ear-splitting screech. It's so shrill that Stiles wonders how the glass in all the car windows isn't shattering. He tries to curl in on himself, manages to at least bring his hands up and clap them over his ears. He doesn't know how Derek's sensitive werewolf hearing can tolerate the shriek because Stiles' head feels like it's going to explode from the din. 

As he's cringing, nearly incapacitated from the sound, Stiles' brain whirs. The lizard paralyzed Tony with whatever poison is on its claws and then let the car hoist do the rest. It could have used its teeth or its claws, but it chose to kill indirectly. Whatever this creature is, it's intelligent and calculating. The police won't have any cause to suspect something supernatural; any human could have killed Tony like this. Whatever this ear-splitting shriek is meant to convey, Stiles doubts it's a declaration of dominance, or an effort to warn away a possible threat. This thing isn't animalistic and instinctive like a werewolf. 

Somehow that makes it more terrifying.

Instinctively his hand clenches around the handle of his knife, reassuring himself of its presence even as he presses his fist against his ear. Then the shriek cuts off, nothing but an echo ringing off the walls of the garage.

The moment the lizard's weight shifts, bracing to lunge forward toward Derek, Stiles pulls his hand from his ear, rolling to the side and stabbing upward as hard as he can, forcing the blade passed tough scales and into the lizard's side to the hilt. Blood spills down onto his fist, hot and slick. 

He loses his grip on his only weapon as the lizard recoils, but Stiles doesn't waste time worrying about that, already scrambling onto his feet and stumbling in Derek's general direction.

"Run," Derek demands, crouching down in preparation to fight. "Stiles, _get out of here!_ " He gestures broadly to the garage doors, before turning back to the lizard, a determined look on his face. 

An alpha werewolf is probably a far better match for the lizard-creature than Stiles, especially since he's lost his knife. Derek doesn't need any distractions if he's going to win this fight, and since Stiles would prefer Derek to win he wastes no time sprinting towards the doors.

There's another roar behind him, the deep, throaty rumble that he knows is Derek and Stiles doesn't look back, pushes himself faster, kicking his legs out further out in front of him, lengthening his stride.

When he reaches the door it feels like victory, like crossing the finish line in a mile long race, though it couldn't have been more than twenty strides. He lets out a relieved laugh, wrapping his hands around the door handle when he hears a heavy slam, like a body slamming into metal.

Instinctively, he whips around to look, eyes immediately finding the dented sedan jacked up on a hoist, its front window smashed. The lizard's tail is thrashing, back legs twitching as it lies, dazed, halfway inside the car. 

The sight gives Stiles pause and he turns, searching for Derek.

The werewolf is lying face-first on the cement, unmoving.

"Derek?" Stiles glances back at the lizard before taking a tentative step away from the door. 

There's an irritated growl from the werewolf when Stiles rolls him onto his back. Derek's eyes narrow into a glare but Stiles doesn't give him the chance to speak. "What happened?" he asks, mostly of himself as he scans the other man. His eyes find the thin slash of red, partially visible above the neck of Derek's shirt. "Oh for the love of…" Stiles mutters. "I _told you_ about its freaking claws."

"Stiles, now is _not_ the time." 

Without his knife Stiles is weaponless. He hates walking around Beacon Hills strapped up with weapons like he's the hero in an action movie but right now he's never felt more stupid for thinking that one knife was good enough. His dad will definitely have something to say about that.

There's a pretty hefty looking wrench lying on a shelf close by. Stiles snatches it up and, holy god it's heavy. That will work in his favor though, he decides. If he gets enough momentum in his swing the weight of the wrench will cause more damage. 

"Hey, Voldemort!" Stiles steps back into place between the lizard and Derek and squares off. The lizard is gingerly making its way down from the car, still clearly dazed, but it turns toward Stiles readily enough. "You want a piece of me?"

The creature opens its mouth, scaly lips peeling back. This close, Stiles can see the thing's teeth: sharp, symmetrical triangles that look like they could easily rend flesh and cut through bone. The lizard isn't doing any of that though. It stands across from him, tail thrashing, its head canted to the side as it stares, unblinking. It's weird, slitted yellow eyes flick between Stiles and Derek, paralyzed on the ground. It doesn't move. 

Stiles regards it carefully. "Huh, maybe it doesn't like wrenches."

Beneath him Derek growls, "Would you shut up and run already?"

Stiles spares an exasperated glance over his shoulder. "I'm not leaving you here." 

When he looks back the lizard has crept closer, is trying to carefully maneuver around Stiles. "Don't even think about it, buddy," Stiles says with confidence born of adrenaline and willful obstinacy. 

Surprisingly, the lizard stops moving, flicks a guilty look at Stiles and holds still for a moment. Then it tries to move again, this time to the left. Stiles mirrors it, blocking its path. "Would you knock it off?" he shouts when the lizard shifts again to the right. It's like some awkward swaying dance they're performing. "I'm not moving," Stiles tells it. "Either kill me or fuck off!"

The lizard screeches, shrill and angry, and it makes Stiles wince, his body curling in against the cacophony, but he refuses to move. It feels like a never-ending moment. 

By the time the echo of the scream has died off the lizard is nowhere in sight.

For a few nerve-wracking moments, Stiles holds his ground, wrench at the ready, unwilling to believe that this ordeal is really over. Then Derek's voice splits the quiet. "It's gone. Stiles, it left." 

Stiles lets his breath out in a whoosh, body going limp with relief and wrench clattering onto the ground. "Holy crap!" he breathes. "Dude, _we're alive!_ " 

"Don't call me 'dude'."

Derek is lying in a rigid sprawl on the concrete floor, and doesn't look nearly as relieved about this turn of events as Stiles thinks he should. "Can you move at all?" he asks, crouching beside the werewolf.

Derek's hazel eyes fix him with a glare. "I'm _paralyzed_. What do _you_ think?"

"Way to be grateful. I just saved your life, Mr. Big Bad." Stiles pushes the neck of Derek's T-shirt aside to get a better look at the thin slice over the werewolf's collarbone. 

"You flailed a wrench at it," Derek points out. "If it had wanted to kill you, it would have."

"Well, it seemed pretty keen on killing _you_ , so _you're welcome_." He lets the shirt fall back into place, rubs his hands over his jean-clad thighs as he lets out a breath. "I think you're okay. I mean, that scratch doesn't seem to be healing, but I'm pretty sure that's because of whatever venom that thing had. I've got a kit in my Jeep, I can clean it out."

"Did I mention the part where I _can't move_?"

"You're such a pessimist. At least acknowledge that all of this could have gone a lot worse!" He's going to have to call the police. The realization is like a cold-shock because focusing on fighting off the lizard and looking after Derek has kept him distracted from where Tony is lying underneath the bakery van, his blood making a sluggish stream toward the floor drain.

Shit. His dad is probably already on his way, possibly along with an entire cavalry. Stiles' text was both non-specific and alarming. There's no way of being certain when exactly his dad would have seen the message, or how long it will take for him to get here but Stiles can only imagine that it won't be long. Beacon Hills isn't exactly a large town.

"Crap, crap," he mutters. "Are you sure you can't move at all?"

" _Stiles!_ "

"Okay, okay! It's just, my dad can't find you here and he's probably on his way as we speak." This is not good. Derek rolls his eyes and huffs, like Stiles was stupid to have called his dad or something. Of all the shit that he will pick-apart and analyze and obsess over about this night, the fact that he called his dad for back-up rather than trust that Derek would just _happen_ to be moseying through the area and decide to lend a hand will definitely not be on that list.

Stiles scans the area but there's no wheelbarrow or trailer that he could use to get Derek out to his Jeep, and he can't leave the werewolf lying in the middle of a crime scene. "Okay, just, try and think light thoughts," Stiles suggests as he grabs the other man under the arms and starts to haul him into an easier carrying position. 

He ends up with Derek's left arm over his shoulders, more or less dragging the werewolf along. It's a good thing he hadn't let Kate drop him off like she'd offered, at least he's got a place to stash an incapacitated werewolf. 

"Seriously, are you thinking about feathers, because it doesn't feel as if you're thinking about feathers!" 

"Why would I think about feathers?" Derek's growl sends a rush of warm breath across his neck and Stiles shivers.

"Dude, you weigh a freaking ton, every little bit helps!" 

It's an awkward and prolonged shuffle-drag but finally Stiles maneuvers Derek into the backseat of his Jeep, covered with a rain jacket he hadn't even realized was still in his trunk. "Okay, don't go anywhere."

"Ha ha," his rain jacket replies. 

Stiles slams the door of his Jeep closed and places two calls, the first to the Sheriff's department, and the second to his dad. "I'm fine. I promise I'm not hurt. The thing ran off. But Tony – but the mechanic is dead, dad, and I've called the Sheriff so…"

"We're five minutes out. Hold on," his dad says. "Is there anyone with you?"

Stiles glances toward the Jeep, purposely turns his back to it when he says, "No, there's just me …" Without his permission his eyes stray to the open garage door. He slams them closed and takes a long breath. "…and Tony." 

"Three minutes out, Stiles. Tell me where you're standing. Are you inside the garage?"

"By the Jeep. I'm just outside. In the parking lot."

"That's good," his dad says, and his voice is sort of hushed. "Can you hear sirens yet?"

"I think so. Maybe." He strains his ears but he can't be certain. Ever since the lizard bolted there's been a low and persistent buzz in Stiles' ears.

He may not be certain that he's hearing the whoop of sirens, but Stiles can definitely see the whirling blue and red lights when he turns toward the road. "Yeah, yeah dad, the police are here." 

"I'm right around the corner. I'll be there soon."

Stiles watches as three department cars pull to a jolting stop in the driveway of Armor Tire. Suddenly there are deputies swarming around. "I gotta go," Stiles says as the Sheriff stalks over, face frowning in a way that looks like he's worried.

Like he feels badly that Stiles is standing in the middle of a murder scene.

"You okay, son?" Sheriff Stilinski asks.

Stiles manages a nod. "Dad… I," he clears his throat. "I called my dad." He holds up his cellphone, then wonders if the shock is finally getting to him, now that he doesn't have Derek as a distraction. 

Judging by the frown on the Sheriff's face the man must be thinking along similar lines because he wraps a broad, comforting hand over Stiles' left shoulder and guides him further down the parking area, away from the garage. "He on his way here?" When Stiles nods, the Sheriff offers a grimacing smile. "Good."

It doesn't take long before his dad's red Chevy pulls up to the curb on the other side of the yellow crime scene tape. He exchanges a few words with a deputy who is guarding the perimeter, and Stiles hears his dad saying, "That's my son" before the Sheriff intervenes.

"Erickson, let him through." The Sheriff waves a hand, beckoning, but Stiles' dad is already striding over, eyes already tight and mouth pinched as he looks Stiles over for injury. The Sheriff takes a few steps away, giving them a moment of pseudo-privacy even though, when Stiles is dragged into a stiff hug by his dad, he catches the Sheriff glancing in their direction before he squeezes his own eyes closed and tightens his hold.

Neither of his parents are especially tactile. Most of the hugs that Stiles gets come from either his aunt Kate or his uncle Reuben, most of the noogies and the hair-ruffles, too. His mom pats his arm, and his dad grips his shoulder sometimes. 

Stiles is tactile by nature. He's a hugger.

"Okay," he says when his dad releases him. "You need my statement, right?" He turns to the Sheriff, who's already coming forward, drawing a notebook from his inside jacket pocket.

"If you feel ready," the man says. 

The tremors in Stiles' hands have mostly dissipated, he feels only a little bit woozy, and his dad is a solid, warm presence at his side, so he nods his head and starts talking.

He leaves out the part about the giant lizard, and he doesn't mention Derek. As far as anyone needs to know, he showed up at the mechanic's shop to pick-up the bakery van and found Tony that way.

"What time did you get here?" the Sheriff wants to know.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and mentally calculates. "I'm not sure, maybe around nine thirty? Or nine forty-five? I called the police as soon as I found him…"

"Okay. That's enough for now." The Sheriff claps a comforting hand on Stiles' shoulder. The press of it feels good, anchoring. Stiles sighs. "You did the right thing," he says, and then tips his head meaningfully at Stiles' dad, and the two of them step away for a second to engage in a hushed conversation.

The moment's solitude lasts just long enough for Stiles to realize how exhausted he is. His muscles feel stretched and limp; all he wants to do is change into his flannel sleep-pants and a warm hoody and curl up at the end of his couch with the TV remote and a blanket.

"Your aunt's going to drive you home," his dad says, appearing beside him.

"No, I'm fine. I can drive."

His dad is turned towards the road, likely watching Kate make her way passed the tape. "We're not arguing. We'll talk about this when we get home."

Stiles blinks. "Am I in trouble?"

That gets his dad's attention, a frown pinching his eyebrows together, wrinkling his forehead. Stiles doesn't know how to interpret that expression, and his dad doesn't get a chance to say anything because suddenly Kate is standing with them, slinging an arm over Stiles' shoulders and dragging him against her side. "Come on, kiddo. I'll take you home. You can take a shower and I'll make some hot chocolate, and then you can tell me what the hell happened tonight." She flashes a smile at Stiles' dad and adds, "We'll meet you back at the house, Chris." 

His dad nods but doesn't move away. Stays standing in place as Kate starts walking Stiles back to the Jeep.

He makes it all the way to the passenger side before his brain engages. "Wait, no!" He wrenches the door open as quickly as he can, but Kate's already seated behind the wheel and turning the engine over. She adjusts the rearview mirror but doesn't look in the backseat, so Stiles forces himself to calm down, pulling himself up into the cab before glancing over his shoulder, as casually as he can.

His raincoat is lying, wrinkled and abandoned, on the backseat. There is no sign that Derek was ever there. It's a lucky thing, Stiles reminds himself as he stares at the raincoat. They dodged a bullet.

Probably a very literal bullet, if Kate had discovered an alpha werewolf chilling in the backseat of her nephew's car, parked at the scene of a murder.

Stiles feels inexplicably bereft.

"Hey, you okay?" Kate asks, concern on her face as she looks over at him.

"Sure, of course." He turns back around in his seat, clears his throat. "Everything's fine."

……………………………………………………

Hunting is dangerous. That's just a fact. It's possible to be cautious and to prepare for every conceivable eventuality, but nothing will ever completely eliminate the risk. By the age of nine, Stiles's mom has talked to him so regularly about this that he knows it on an intrinsic level.

His dad takes safety even more seriously. Stiles gets long lectures about how being over-cautious and over-prepared is always best. By eleven, when he's allowed to participate in hunts, albeit minimally; the lectures morph into detailed performance reviews where his dad calmly but sternly points out every single mistake Stiles made, and how he apparently almost got himself killed. 

Stiles has always felt that these lectures are severe over-reactions but he understands the motivation behind them: his dad is worried about him. 

Stiles appreciates that, but he's also very aware that his own definition of 'in over his head' is very different from his dad's. Just like his own definition of 'almost got yourself recklessly killed' is different. For one thing, Stiles is never allowed out by himself when they're on a hunt. He's six months into being eighteen years old and his dad is still giving him the 'when you're older' line.

Which is probably why his dad looks especially livid, face ashen white with a stripe of startling red high on his cheekbones and eyes narrowed down to slits, when he finds Stiles.

"What were you thinking?" his dad demands to know. They're in the middle of a forest in northern New York on the third day of the Labor Day weekend. The crumpled body of a skinwalker is lying at Stiles' feet. He's choosing to ignore the bloody spatter on his face and his T-shirt in favor of raising his hands up, placating, in the face of his father who still has a gun in his hands, safety off. "You almost got yourself killed! You were _reckless_!"

Later, after Stiles comes home and finds his parents sitting at a table with a realtor, after he packs up his life yet again and moves to Beacon Hills, Stiles will think back on this moment and realize that this is not the usual amount of paternal concern. That possibly his dad was genuinely worried far-beyond the typical post-hunt performance review that Stiles has become inured to. 

Right now, though, Stiles jerks his chin up and flaps his hand in the direction of the dead skinwalker. "I _told_ you it wasn't an omega, Dad!"

His dad scans the woods before clicking the safety on his gun in place, re-holstering it roughly as he stalks closer. "Are you hurt?"

"Naw, I'm fine." Stiles lets his dad manhandle him, tilting his head left and then right, looking for signs of injury. After a moment, when his dad is still scrutinizing him, Stiles bats his hands away. "I'm fine, I promise. Where are the others? Hotchkins and what's-his-name?"

"We found the lair. The others stayed to check it out." His dad huffs as he adds, "I doubled-back when we realized you'd gotten separated."

"Did you find the hiker? Is he okay? Were any of the other missing people there?"

"Wow, slow down. The hiker's fine. So far nothing else has turned up but it's a pretty big cave system." His dad's eyes narrow, and reaches out to the tear in Stiles' T-shirt. "What happened here?" he asks, his eyes drifting from tear in the left sleeve of the shirt down to the bruising on Stiles' arm. 

"Uh." 

The way his dad's mouth pinches into a tight straight line does not bode well. Stiles watches as his dad takes another look at the surrounding area, this time spending more time on the details: like the button-down shirt Stiles had been wearing lying a few feet away in a mangled heap. "Did she tie you up?"

"Maybe?" Stiles hedges. A strip of his over-shirt is still wrapped down the length of his forearm, Stiles had mostly forgotten about it until he goes to rub at the back of his head. The end of the strip dangles loosely passed his fingers, frayed threads moving languorously in a faint breeze. He catches himself staring at the uneven line his knife had made as it had sliced through the thin material. 

Clearing his throat, Stiles tries again. "Okay, she sort of tied me up. But I mean, it depends what your definition of 'tying me up' is."

As usual, his dad is entirely uninterested in splitting hairs. Roughly, he unwinds the cloth from Stiles' arm. "You're going to explain exactly what happened here."

"Okay, sure. But do I have to do it right now?" 

The look he gets is answer enough. Stiles huffs, flops back against the tree he's standing by and shrugs. Where to start? "Uh, so like I said, I figured it was a skinwalker and not an omega…"

"Skip to the part where we were tracking the thing as a group and suddenly you're wandering off on your own." 

Well sure, if you put it like that it sounds bad. Stiles flounders for a second but there's really no way he can dress up what happened as anything other than what it was, so he bites the bullet. "I found a separate trail and I stopped to check it out and when I looked up you guys had already moved on." He shrugs. At the time, their absence had seemed like tacit permission to head off on his own. 

"So you found the thing."

"Yeah. I tracked it and I found it." Technically, _she_ had found _him_ , but Stiles doesn't need to tell his dad that. The important point here is that Stiles was obviously following the right tracks through the wood because _he's_ the one who found the skinwalker. Clearly he is a superior tracker who should not be so readily dismissed in future.

His dad does not seem to agree. "And she tied you up, how?"

"So…" Licking his lips, Stiles rolls his shoulder in a loose shrug. "When I found her… I tried to get her talking because I figured you'd circle back when you saw I was gone, and she'd maybe let slip where she was keeping the hiker…"

"So you stalled her," his dad fills in.

"Yeah. I stalled her. And obviously it worked because you came and killed her…" Three silver bullets, one to the head and two to the chest. She's lying with her arms stretched out, her hair splayed around her. Stiles is trying not to look. "So… it's all good," he flashes two thumbs up and then waits for the verdict.

His dad lets the silence stretch just long enough that Stiles starts to hope that maybe that will be the end of it. Then he says, "Where I get confused is how you go from stalling her, to being tied up and at the mercy of a naked skinwalker."

Stiles grimaces. "Well, funny thing…" 

It hadn't been all that funny, actually. He'd noticed the tracks in the woods and followed them along to a mound of boulders when the tracks forked. Crouched down, trying to determine which set were the freshest, Stiles hadn't noticed the giant wolf standing over him at the top of the pile of rocks. Not until she had jumped down and snarled at him.

"She shed her skin," Stiles explains. The wolf pelt is still lying there at the foot of the rocks. 

Patience has never been one of his dad's strong suits, and by the expression on his face, clearly what little he has is worn through. "Stiles."

"Look," Stiles says. "I was going to call you once I figured out that I was following the right trail, okay? But then there was this huge ass wolf all growly and cranky, and _then_ the wolf changed and … and skinwalker transformations are just _messed up_ , okay? They're like an actual nightmare, I'm not kidding. It's all cracking bones and disturbing ripples under the skin and unpleasant sounds and it's entirely gross and also sorta violent … it's _not good,_ okay? And then…" he takes a steadying breath before he continues. "And then, _who knew_ that underneath their little shifter pelts they're just _totally_ naked? I didn't. I didn't know that, actually, and I wasn't expecting it. Like at all." He'd gone from horrified and nauseated to being horrified but also kind of turned on. She'd been completely nude and not at all bad looking and that had done confusing things to Stiles. "Sue me, I _forgot to call_."

"This isn't a joke, Stiles. Tell me _exactly_ what she did to you."

Stiles throws his hands up. "She didn't do anything! Mostly she was just talking weird." He shrugs his dad off and pushes away from the tree but this means there's nothing blocking the sight of the very human-looking skinwalker splayed on the ground, or the wolf pelt bunched awkwardly by the boulders and his stomach roils and nope, he's not looking. 

He keeps purposefully not looking as he marches through the trees, leaving a wide berth around the body until he dad says, "Hey, we're not finished here." 

There's a rock jutting out of the ground on Stiles' left and Stiles perches on it, shifting so his back is facing the rocks and the wolf pelt and the naked woman sprawled on the ground. Back rigid, trying desperately to control the tremble in his hands before his dad notices, Stiles waits. 

"Stiles." His dad's voice sounds closer, but he refuses to look. Not until his dad settles awkwardly onto the rock, his right arm bumping against Stiles' left because there isn't enough space for two people to sit comfortably. His dad sighs, and when he speaks again there isn't any anger in his voice. "Walk me through this. What did she say to you?"

It's embarrassing. Stiles tries to think of some way that he can avoid saying any of it aloud but he knows that his dad won't let up until he does so, "She asked me if I'd come here to offer myself to her."

There's a stretch of silence where Stiles mostly concentrates on not blushing and not melting into a puddle of mortification, and his dad maybe mulls this new information over, or tries not to laugh, or something. At least he manages to keep any amusement from his tone when he asks, "What did you tell her?"

"Uh… I told her I was possibly considering it?" His dad groans and Stiles rushes to explain, "I was trying to stall her, remember?" 

That's the thing that neither of his parents have really understood about him. According to his dad, a hunter's greatest weapon is always their training, but their second-best weapon is personal: for his dad it's the stainless steel Taurus .45, and his mom's is the matte black compound bow, but Stiles' best weapon outside of the meticulous and grueling training has always been his mouth. Unless he's gagged or his ability to talk is otherwise impeded, Stiles will always consider the situation salvageable.

It's part of the reason that when his dad tells him he 'almost got himself killed', Stiles will always disagree, confident he could have turned everything around if he had more time.

He's long-since given up on explaining this, though. Propping his elbows on his knees, Stiles rifles his fingers through his hair and braces himself to get through the rest of this conversation as quickly as possible so he can finally get out of the woods and go home and put this whole thing behind him.

It occurs to him to wonder if shit like this happens to other hunters. Do they crack open a beer or some scotch or something and laugh about this crap? Stiles' family takes hunting very seriously, but maybe there are embarrassing stories like this in every hunter's history, even Grandpa Gerard's, they just elect never to talk about it again. Stiles can't blame them if that's the case.

"She said she thought she could convince me," Stiles continues when he feels adequately steadied. "She kissed me, and she ripped my shirt and said if I promised to be hers then she would let the hiker go, let you and the others go, too, without hurting anyone." There'd been a desperate gleam in her eyes. Stiles got the sense that she would promise him anything he wanted, but it was equally clear that she was so far gone she wouldn't remember any of her promises later. "I told her that I would consider it only _after_ I'd seen that the hiker was alive, at which point…" he takes a deep breath and lets it out again. "At which point she went crazy and clawed at me and tried to choke me and I said, 'fine, I give' and that's when she tied our hands together."

"She tied your hand with hers." 

Stiles nods. "I figured she was taking me hostage. Like she was just making do with my shirt because she didn't have handcuffs lying around, since she was totally naked and her wolf pelt didn't exactly have pockets, but then she didn't show any intention of moving anywhere and, well, when I figured that she was completely insane I got my knife and I cut myself loose, and then you showed up and killed her so…happy?"

"Not even a little bit." After a beat, his dad gets back to his feet and motions for Stiles to do the same. "Let's go home."

"What about…" He makes a meaningful gesture in the direction of the dead skinwalker.

His dad glances over at her. "The others will take care of it. We're leaving." 

Stiles lurks unobtrusively by a tree while his dad has a terse conversation over the phone with one of the other two guys who came out on the hunt with them, that ends with his dad reciting their coordinates and then pocketing his phone.

"Are you going to tell Mom?" 

His dad regards him for a moment. "Are you marked anywhere? Did she cut you or …"

"No. I told you, I'm fine. This blood is all hers."

"You have no idea what almost happened here," his dad sighs, rubbing a hand over his face.

Stiles snorts. "Pretty sure I almost got hand-fasted to a psychotic murdering skinwalker."

His dad wraps a hand around his arm and drags him to a halt. "You wandered off, Stiles. Don't ever, ever do that again. What if I hadn't gotten here?"

"I had my knife! My _silver_ knife. I could have taken care of it myself." The only reason he went along with her as long as he had was that he thought he was being helpful. There was no way to be sure that his dad and the others had found the hiker. In Stiles' experience more information is always better. 

His dad called him reckless earlier, but that wasn't true. Reckless meant 'careless' and 'unplanned' and sometimes also 'half-assed'. Stiles is never reckless. He's adaptive by nature, and he's always, _always_ thinking.

On their way back to the truck they run across one of the other hunters. Stiles can never remember the man's name, mostly because the guy likes to pretend Stiles doesn't exist. Like right now, the guy shakes Chris' hand but doesn't spare a glance in Stiles' direction. "Hotchkins has taken the hiker back into town. Guess I'm alone on cleanup."

"Sorry to leave you hanging," Stiles' dad says, and then the two men huddle off to the side to have a conversation that Stiles clearly isn't invited to. He takes the opportunity to assess the damage to his T-shirt and concludes it's unsalvageable. He's covered in blowback from the three bullets his dad put through the shifter, who had been standing less than two feet away from him at the time. All he can think about is getting out of his ruined clothes and into a shower. A hot one, that lasts at least thirty minutes.

"That boy's a bad luck charm," Stiles hears the other hunter murmur. His name is Rutherford, or Raithcliffe or something with an 'R', Stiles thinks. Or maybe not. "You ever take that kid out on a hunt that actually went as planned?" Stiles can't hear how his dad responds but he doesn't need to. The answer is 'no'. "Least he kept a level-head," he continues. "Might make a hunter yet."

"I'm a hunter _right now_ ," Stiles mutters to himself, kicking irritably at the ground. He'd love to point out that he was the one who knew right from the start that they were actually hunting a skinwalker and not a rogue werewolf like everyone else thought. _He_ was the one who managed to track it and find it and, okay so he didn't kill it but he's certain he could have if he'd had more time. 

It's not reckless if you know what you're doing.

……………………………………………………

It's not enough to be told that he did all he could. That doesn't erase the sound that he can still remember, that plays and replays in his head, again and again. It’s not enough to see the dark, fierce look on his dad's face as he says, "I'll find this thing, I promise you."

"It won't hurt you," his mom vows, warm and confident. 

It's not good enough.

"What the hell did it want?" Stiles asks the question that's been circling round and round in his thoughts since everything happened. The lizard, whatever it is, had come to the mechanic's shop to kill Tony, that much Stiles feels confident of. He remembers the way the creature had stalked along the rafters, how it had destroyed the car hoist, how it had left Tony paralyzed and helpless – how it had held Stiles back, even as he had kicked and fought, until Tony was dead.

It hadn't killed Stiles. 

It could have.

More than once, Stiles had been almost literally in the palm of the thing's hand. It hadn't hesitated to kill the mechanic, had even seemed intent to go after Derek, but when Stiles got in the way … "Why?" he wonders.

"We don't know, hon," Kate says, rubbing his back gently. "We don't even know what it is yet. But we'll figure it out."

It's not good enough; because Stiles catches the look his parents share and gets the unnerving feeling that they both know more than they're telling him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A/N:** Finally, an update! Thanks so much to everyone who patiently awaited it, and double-thanks to everyone who touched-based with me and left comments and support. You guys are incredible. Chapter three exists in a slightly muddled and half-finished form, so it will _not_ be another year before the next update! Also, if anyone wants a more complete sense of what 'uncle' Reuben looks like, I've mentally cast [Robert Buckley](http://cdn04.cdn.justjared.com/wp-content/uploads/2008/08/buckley-bunny/robert-buckley-house-bunny-04.jpg%20) in the role.
> 
> Please leave feedback! It fuels my writing!


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